A Ragged Army
by Simbelmyne Nienor
Summary: "To his good character, Sergeant Richard Grayson was never one to visit any of the second-class female boarding-houses that lined Chinatown's streets. This was not a mere social call for the good officer; the presence of a crumpled piece of paper in his pocket said otherwise." The 1890s San Francisco AU that probably nobody asked for. Chapters 1-6 revised, with added preface.
1. Preface

**To those of you who have already read this fanfiction (prior to January 2019, chapters 1 through 6)** , I have changed the setting of the story from 1898 New York City to 1890 San Francisco due to a personal belief that the change in setting would greater benefit the plot and the characters. If you no longer wish to read the story, thank you for your time. If you do wish to continue reading the story but don't wish to reread any of the old chapters, feel free to PM me, asking for a summary. If you couldn't care less either way, do what suits you.

 **To those of you who are new here** , I welcome you. Here is an 1890s AU of a childhood cartoon; obviously what everyone has been lacking in their lives. I use sarcasm, of course, but I truly am excited as to where this story is heading. I hope you feel the same way.

 **Either way,** here is a bit of historical background that I deem necessary in order to understand this story properly (of course, I define "necessary" much different than the average person, so feel free to skip this preface.)

 **oOo**

1890: ten years before the next century was due to start. Everyone could feel the excitement in the air. New technology was constantly being developed; telephones were slowly becoming more ubiquitous and more and more homes (mostly those of the wealthy) were being fitted with the new electric lighting fixtures. Factories and sweatshops were growing in size and in number as production of consumer goods became more efficient both in time and in cost. Children often worked once they had reached their teenage years (or even younger), helping assemble paper flowers, selling newspapers on the street, or shining shoes.

Entertainment took the form of vaudeville for the masses and more sophisticated arts like opera, the ballet, or "legitimate" theatre for those wealthy enough to pay for the tickets. In 1892, the popular song "After the Ball" sold over 2 million copies in sheet music, essentially making it the birth of American pop music. Like most other songs of its day, "After the Ball" was a sentimental waltz about love and loss. I quite like it, but it is very unlike music today.

As for politics, most local governments were quite corrupt, with characters like Boss Tweed leaving a bad taste in everyone's mouth. In 1898, the U.S.S. Maine was sunk, igniting the Spanish-American War. It was the first major conflict for the U.S. since the Civil War and there wouldn't be another big conflict until the US joined World War I in 1917.

Things seemed to be looking up for Americans in 1890 and a few economic recessions over the course of the decade weren't going to dampen America's excitement for the dawn of a new century; a century of industry and of progress. But, do not think of the United States as a monolith. Instead, our story is set in one particular city in one particular state (one that is quite close to my heart): San Francisco, California

 **oOo**

California had only been a state for thirty-nine years in 1890 and most Americans either saw it as a popular vacationing region (with its gargantuan redwoods and Yosemite's Half Dome) or a Wild West of sorts (with its missions, old _Californio_ families _,_ and a lack of a strong law-enforcement bureau).

San Francisco in 1890 was quite unlike its East Coast counterparts. While the city was the largest on the West Coast of the United States at the time, and would be until the 1906 earthquake and Los Angeles' population growth around the 1920s, San Francisco was very different from other cities such as Boston or New York.

For one thing, it just looked different. Boston had its federal and colonial-style houses while New York had majestic brownstones and ornate mansions alongside squalid and sprawling tenements. San Francisco, on the other hand, had what seemed to be infinitely many hills, many of which were covered with wooden false-front houses and stores. Some streets, like Market, had tall department stores and looked more like the average 19th-century American city. And as the century ended and the next began, the rest of the city would soon follow, growing taller and taller until it would resemble nearly every other major metropolitan area in the United States. The earthquake and fires of 1906 also helped to modernize the city, as much of San Francisco had to be rebuilt.

Crime in San Francisco during this era wasn't like the gang-ridden criminal underworld of New York City. While old Gotham had its Cherry Hill Gang and figures such as Monk Eastman, San Francisco was far more disorganized, although crime did seem to largely be centered in the Barbary Coast, Tenderloin, and Chinatown neighborhoods. The San Francisco police department, too, was less developed than its New York counterpart. The police in San Francisco weren't necessarily assumed to be corrupt and in the hands of the big bosses over in Tammany Hall, so to speak. However, San Francisco did have its own host of problems, such as opium dens and racially-segregated brothels. Indeed, the racial make-up of San Francisco was what set it apart from, for the most part, the rest of the United States.

The Chinese Exclusion Act in 1882 essentially put a halt to all Chinese immigration to the United States and wouldn't be abolished for another few decades. Bred from nativist sentiment and a fear of the "other", the Chinese Exclusion Act helped to solidify bigotry and xenophobia within California (and, indeed, the rest of the United States). Most of the Chinese in the United States were male; the few women that did arrive on America's shores were often presumed to be prostitutes and risked deportment. These immigrants spoke Cantonese and, to the white Americans at the time, appeared to be something exotic.

Thus, the Chinatowns that sprang up around the country both served as ethnic neighborhoods and as tourism points for the middle-class. The opium den was both a place to be a drug addict and a place to gawk at said drug addict. Houses of prostitution were also subjected to exoticism and bigotry; a map of San Francisco's Chinatown from 1885 labels the brothels in two distinct terms: white prostitutes and Chinese prostitutes.

 **oOo**

It is clear that the ideas and mindsets surrounding race in the 1890s differed greatly from the values that we hold today. This story of mine is not intended to enforce those thoughts or biases, but to instead give a mostly-accurate depiction of life back then as it relates to our protagonists. Some of the racial slurs of the time are not those that I feel comfortable writing and, as an author, I feel that it is necessary that I "sanitize" my writing just a little in that respect. Let it just be said that my writing will not resemble that of Mark Twain's "Huckleberry Finn" in that regard.

Gender roles have also greatly changed since the 1890s. Women did not have the right to vote yet nationwide (and wouldn't for another thirty years). Most middle and upper-class women did not work outside of the home, especially once they were married. As is such, the characters in this story of mine have had their lives and their backgrounds altered slightly so as to match the ideals of masculinity and femininity of the era. It is not my intent to write any of the characters as being inferior to their canon counterparts solely because of their sex, but to instead show what their lives would most likely resemble had their stories taken place nearly 130 years ago.

 **oOo**

 **A note on the historical accuracy of it all:** I am a complete history nerd, especially with 1890s America. It's a favorite era of mine for several reasons (one of which is the sheer ridiculousness of women's fashionable sleeves). I have done and am still doing an incredible amount of research for this story. I am constantly reading contemporary newspapers, researching the California Penal and Civil Codes at the time, and cross-referencing all of the locations in my story with census records, street directories, and maps of the city. However, I am (clearly) not perfect and I will miss some things. Perhaps there really was no druggist on that one particular street or there was no streetcar that ran from point A to point B without a detour through point C.

If there are any glaring errors such as fax machines being used (I joke) or something just seeming completely _off,_ please do let me know.

As for clothing, you can bet that I have accurately researched what outfits each individual character would have worn. In fact, I am an amateur historical costumer (the 1890s and the 1830s are my favorite time periods to sew for).

For example, the working-class individual without an eye for fashion would most likely wear a skirt and jacket from five to ten years earlier with slight alterations made to fit the current decade. That person's blouse might be more recent, as those tend to wear out faster, and the shoes and hat would be most recent of all. Hats were insane with their decorations and it was also relatively inexpensive to change up the trim of a hat to suit a particular occasion. Meanwhile, the woman who cares a bit more about fashion but cannot necessarily afford to buy something custom-made each week would have a few old favorites, constantly made-over to look newer and more in-season, along with perhaps a new wool "crape" walking suit with sleeves and a skirt in the fashionable style.

Menswear would be similar. If I were to be honest with you, menswear didn't change much since probably the 1850s. Just imagine a "Victorian" gentleman in a matching suit jacket and trousers, probably with a bowler hat. That's what most of the men in this story would wear on a day-to-day basis, although the fabrics and prints of their clothing would vary slightly depending on social class and occasion.

And, it should be noted, the bustle was on its way out. Do not picture those huge bustles nor the cage crinolines of earlier eras. If you are as interested in late 19th-century clothing as I am, feel free to PM me for pictures and resources that I have gathered.


	2. A Man Finds Himself Out of His Element

**This is an edited chapter with a change in setting. Instead of 1898 New York City, this is 1890 San Francisco. PM me if you've read the original (Part I, Book I, Chapter I) and only want a summary of the changes I've made so that you don't have to reread. **

Sergeant Richard Grayson tried not to grimace at the stifling air around him with its scent of two-bit cigars, musky perfume, and cheap alcohol nearly overwhelming his mental capacities. Around him, girls in their negligee flitted about from customer to customer, gauging the size of both the patron's coin-purse and male anatomy. Richard cleared his throat as he tried not to look any of those around him in the eye. Instead, he focused on his drink. Whiskey never was his favorite and he found that tonight, it burned his throat quite uncomfortably on its way down. He looked down at his time-piece, noticing that it was nearing six o'clock, meaning that most of the brothel's patrons wouldn't even be off work yet. Richard had long since left his own workplace at Old City Hall due to his finishing early, having shed his police uniform for a less conspicuous dinner suit; to look the part of a beat cop while sitting in a brothel wouldn't do.

If he were any other man, Richard would have gladly ogled the girls around him and would have enjoyed himself entirely. However, Richard Grayson, being a staunch officer of the law as he was, knew that he was only at "Mother" May-Eileen's second-class establishment for one purpose and one girl in particular: Karolina Andrzejowicz, known to those around her as Karolina Anders on account of her supposedly unpronounceable Polish last name. It had been tempting, originally, for Richard to want to arrest May-Eileen for her establishment alone violated much of the California Penal Code. However, Richard knew that the madam had long been paying off the mayor and the chief of police. There was little he could do as a police officer at that point. Besides, he was here for other reasons. Of a sort.

To his good character, Sergeant Richard Grayson was never one to visit any of the second-class female boarding-houses that lined Chinatown's festering streets. Before he had entered the police force, back in his university days in New England and to the consternation of his legal guardian, he had occasionally visited some of the first-class establishments in his college town. Richard was a man of the nineteenth century, after all, and first-class establishments such as the ones he used to frequent held class, discretion, and most of all, the comfort of their patrons as a first priority. But today, Sergeant Grayson found himself quite out of his usual jurisdiction. As a higher-ranking officer than the dime-a-dozen beat-cops, Richard dealt more with paperwork than he did with patrols.

Do not be mistaken in thinking that this was a mere social call for the good young officer for the presence of a crinkling piece of paper – clearly hastily torn off of a five-cent writing tablet – in his pocket said otherwise. It had only been a handful of days since Sergeant Grayson had found this note innocently laying atop his ledgers when he arrived at his work desk yet he had long since memorized its contents.

' _Dear Sergeant R. Grayson,'_ the letter read. ' _Regarding the dreaded industry of white slavery in this good city, there is one victim in particular whom I request that you help. She is Karolina Andrzejowicz at "Mother" May-Eileen -'s establishment located at 834 - St. I trust you have seen cases similar to hers before; a fresh-faced immigrant girl, naïve as to the ways of the world, tricked by the most despicable of those whom roam our city streets. I know you must think yourself above investigations such as these, so I ask that you aid her not as a policeman but as a friend. She desperately needs one in this world. Perhaps you wonder why I have asked this of you in particular. I will not go into specifics. However, I ask that you rescue her from her plight for reasons that I should prefer to keep as my own. Just know, sir, that I am ever a considered citizen of this fine city of San Francisco and I am dedicated to aiding your cause.'_

It is to be noted that this was not the first of these letters that Richard Grayson had received from this unknown sender. The past missives had always contained some pieces of evidence related to the case that Sergeant Grayson was working on at the time, usually proving to invariably solve those cases. Usually those were just involving minor crimes such as petty thieves and yet this was by far the most personal letter from this sender that Richard had yet received. And yet, no matter how much Sergeant Grayson pored over the handwriting of the notes with sharp script oddly elegant despite the lack of distinctive flourishes and always in the same dark blue ink, he never could figure out just who these notes were from.

One thing notably different about this particular letter from _The Raven_ was the presence of a coin-purse with a note attached reading, ' _Enclosed is the rest of the sum with which to bribe May-Eileen. She knows to expect only a hundred dollars in total; no more, no less. The rest has been sent to her by me in advance."_

The letter itself, discounting the coin purse, continued on shortly, detailing a plan for how Sergeant Grayson could go about withdrawing Miss Andrzejowicz from her current predicament. The sender assured Richard that good Miss Andrzejowicz would be well-aware of the plan by the day of reckoning and that the plan was little more than a white lie and a name-change.

The signature at the bottom of every single note he'd received to date, written in the exact same penmanship and deep blue ink as the body of the letter always seemed to puzzle Richard Grayson the most. After whatever tip the not presented were the words ' _I remain ever your faithful servant'_ and no moniker save for ' _The Raven._ ' Anonymity was no stranger to police tips but such a fanciful penname was quite out of the ordinary.

What could _The Raven_ want in a second-class brothel with some Polish girl named Karolina? That was what Richard asked himself as he continued to sit on an overly-plush stool in the brothel's foyer, his empty whiskey glass still in his hand.

It would seem as if Providence was willing to answer Sergeant Grayson's question as the matron of this establishment, "Mother" May-Eileen suddenly let out a noise of surprise. Richard Grayson, having practiced the arts of observation and surveillance during his youth, shifted his gaze subtly to where May-Eileen was looking. There, stepping delicately down the main staircase of this second-class boarding house was a young woman in a lilac silk dressing gown, her vibrant red hair swept into a haphazard braid. Despite the importance of professionalism to this situation, Sergeant Richard Grayson felt his breath catch slightly at the appearance of this girl. She seemed different to the other female boarders that May Eileen was currently employing. And even with the overabundance of powder and rouge she wore, this young woman had a pleasant countenance and a bright visage. This must have been the girl, Karolina Andrzejowicz, that _The Raven_ was talking about.

Richard Grayson's suspicions of such were confirmed when May-Eileen tutted softly and beckoned the girl over, saying, "Karolina, come here. There's a man waiting for you who's requested your services. Perhaps you should take him up to your room."

That man, it turns out, was our very own Sergeant Richard Grayson, thanks to some premeditated meddling at the hands of _The Raven._ Thanks to a large cash sum sent in advance by _The Raven,_ Mother May-Eileen would claim to know nothing of Richard's profession nor of his plans for Karolina.

As Karolina approached him, Richard felt his throat grow dry and his heart start racing. What would she be expecting him to do? And such a lovely girl in a place such as this…

But then he noticed Karolina's large green eyes; they were devoid of the usual fake happiness that these so-called working girls had when plying their wares. Instead, Karolina Andrzejowicz's eyes held nothing bright or happy at all. They indeed held the expression seen so commonly in the hapless innocents whose lives were ruined by the white slave trade but that was it.

Wordlessly, Karolina led Sergeant Grayson upstairs to her room, passing through a dimly lit hallway and by several shut doors of other working girls along the way.

"Here you are, sir," she said, as she opened the door that lay at the very end of the hall. "Please come in."

Karolina's room was small yet well-furnished, being lit by two gas lamps. Lace curtains and a matching bedspread seemed to be an attempt to make the cramped room appear more homelike. The peeling pink wallpaper, grimy with soot, seemed to hint at a happier disposition than could be found in a room such as this.

Richard would have moved to sit in the small wicker chair by the dressing table but Karolina instead gestured towards the bed so the good officer obliged.

Before even making proper introductions, Richard observed, Karolina took a flannel from her nightstand and submerged it gently into a basin of warm water. When she turned back around to look at her client, she almost seemed surprised to see that the man sitting on her bed did not have his trousers and drawers unfasted and pooling around his ankles. Upon meeting her client's gaze, Karolina noticed that he hadn't even removed his coat.

Sergeant Grayson noticed the girl's confusion, for he said, "It would not be appropriate for me to be in my shirt-sleeves around a lady." It was certainly stuffy enough in the room to warrant its removal but Richard knew that his polite upbringing wouldn't allow him to be so informal.

Blushing slightly, Karolina set the flannel down in the basin, careful not to drop water over either herself or the man in front of her.

"I do not understand, sir," she said. "Mother May-Eileen has said to me that you paid for an hour of my services. Do you not wish to partake in them?"

Richard Grayson merely shook his head, gesturing for Karolina to sit beside him on the bed.

Karolina pursed her lips. "Then why are you here, sir? she said, her voice curt. If this officer was going to waste her time, he could at least pay her for it.

Clearing his throat for what must have been the tenth time that evening, Richard said, "Miss Andrzejowicz," he said, "I know how it is you came to be in this place. Do not be alarmed. I am Sergeant Richard Grayson. I work for the San Francisco police. I am here to get you out of this vice-ridden establishment and to safety."

In hindsight, perhaps an approach of that sort was too blunt for the gravity of the situation at hand. It would be more likely to scare Karolina away than to reassure her.

Whatever response Richard had been expecting, an angry Miss Andrzejowicz never once crossed his mind.

"I do not need your assistance," Karolina said, standing up and distancing herself from Sergeant Grayson. "I do not need your misplaced concern."

To Karolina, this Richard Grayson would not be the first well-meaning client to try and save her from her circumstances. However, those men normally wanted a companion to warm their beds without the obligation of paying an extra coin. They didn't take into consideration what their proposed bed-warmer might actually want.

While Richard considered accepting the girl's wishes, for she was not the first girl of ill-repute he had dealt with in the past, it seemed as if the letter in his pocket suddenly made its presence known once more. _The letter!_ he thought. How could he have forgotten to mention this to Miss Andrzejowicz? He cursed himself for this oversight.

"Wait!" he said, trying not to raise his voice overmuch and therefore cause May-Eileen to think that anything other than Miss Andrzejowicz's normal services were occurring in this small bedroom. "Karolina- Miss Andrzejowicz, please. I was sent here by someone who claims to know you. He asked this of me."

"Who? Karolina said, skeptically folding her arms over her chest. "Yet another cop?"

She couldn't recall knowing too many of San Francisco's male population outside of a _professional_ context.

Sergeant Grayson shook his head. "No," he said. " _The Raven._ I trust you know of him."

To Richard's surprise, Karolina laughed brightly. It truly was a lovely sound.

"Yes, Sergeant Grayson," she said, "I do know of _her_."

Pushing aside his slight embarrassment as his assumption, Richard felt a glimmer of hope. Finally, he thought, there was a clue as to who the Raven was. A woman. How had ne not seen it from the penmanship? Certain swoops of certain letters were clearly indicative of his mysterious aide's sex.

"So," Karolina said, taking a seat beside Richard on the bed once more. The room was growing stuffier still but neither of them made any move to open the one window. "The Raven sent you to rescue me. She decided it was the right time."

Richard nodded and said, "I presume the two of you have discussed this in the past. She detailed how I should go about doing so in a letter that was placed on my desk in my office. I believe we're to go to dinner and then the opera."

Karolina hid a smile behind one of her freckled hands, as if modesty was absolutely imperative in a setting such as this. "I've never been to the opera in America, before," she said. "What will we see?"

"Rigoletto by Verdi," Richard said. He'd not yet seen it as he'd always tried to avoid the opera when he was growing up. But today, he found he was quite excited to visit the opera. "At the Orpheum Opera House. Have you seen it?"

Karolina shook her head. "Not that one, I don't think," she said. "It's been so long since I've been to any theatre."

"You used to go often?" Richard asked, his curiosity piqued by this intriguing girl in front of him.

"Oh, yes!" Karolina said. "Back in my home town, my father would take my sister and me to the theatre very often. I especially enjoyed the – how do you call it? – variety hall. Oh, and the ballet! My mother never approved of those shows and we stopped going once I grew older."

Richard offered Karolina a small smile as he said, "Well, I hope you'll enjoy tonight's performance. It's the C. D. Hess Grand Opera Company and I hear they're quite good. But before the show at half past eight o'clock, I'd like to take you to dinner at the _Maison Riche_ , if that's all right with you?"

Karolina nodded eagerly. "Truly?" she said. "But I thought that that was one of the more expensive restaurants in the city!"

Shrugging, Richard said, "It's nothing, I assure you. Think of it as a gift."

"Well, Sergeant Grayson," Karolina said, as she got up to rummage around in a trunk at the foot of her bed, "if you permit me to gather my belongings and dress into something more suitable, we shall soon be able to leave."

Feeling his face grow red, Richard quickly left his seat on Karolina's bed, situating himself just by her closed door, facing away from her. Despite the impropriety of the current establishment, Sergeant Grayson still felt as if he must remain ever the gentleman.

It was not ten minutes later when Karolina tapped Richard on his shoulder, softly saying that she was properly robed. Richard tried not to let his admiration for this young woman's comely appearance interrupt their escape, for, judging by a quick glance at his pocket-watch, May-Eileen would be expecting the two of them downstairs within the next few minutes. Yet, he couldn't help but openly admire – just for a few seconds – the transformation of Miss Karolina Andrzejowicz in front of him. Gone was the flimsy silk of her house jacket and in its place, was a neat suit of thistle-colored wool crepe and a well-tailored grey cloak. A jaunty felt hat sat atop her newly coiffed hair. Yes, Karolina now looked every part a respectable San Francisco society lady. When he was done admiring how well-dressed Karolina was, Richard was pleased to note that she had also managed to fill a carpetbag with the rest of her belongings – mostly clothes, if Richard were to hazard a guess. Karolina placed the carpetbag on her bed for _The Raven_ to collect later that night before smoothing out her cloak and checking her appearance in her dressing-table mirror.

"Well," she said, "shall we attend the theatre?"

Richard put on his hat, tipping it in Karolina's direction as he offered her his arm. "If it pleases you, Miss Andrzejowicz," he said.

Once the two of them had rejoined the rest of the bacchanalia in the brothel's parlor, Richard reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small coin-purse, heavy despite its size, and handed it discreetly to May-Eileen.

"The rest of the hundred dollars, as promised," Richard said.

May-Eileen pinched his right cheek like an old grandmother would as she said, "Enjoy the theatre, sir."

Richard tipped his hat at her and then swept Karolina out of the brothel's doors and onto Sacramento Street. Now, it was only a short street-car ride to the Maison Riche.

 **oOo**

Dinner was a grand affair and Richard couldn't help but be amused at Karolina's confusion when it came to the sheer number of cutlery laid out in front of her. But that confusion quickly changed to sheer wonder upon the sight of the _charlotte russe à la maison_ being brought out from the kitchens and sliced for distribution amongst the tables.

Such an expression of wonder continued throughout the three hours of the opera as Karolina grew ever more invested in the story that the players and Verdi told. Throughout the entire show, Richard couldn't help but watch the woman sitting next to him especially once, at the end of the play, she began sobbing into his shoulder. Apparently, Karolina found Gilda's sacrifice for her lover quite touching.

After the final curtain call, Richard and Karolina gathered their outerwear from the cloakrooms and headed out onto Hyde Street, ready to take the quick walk over to the Westmoreland hotel. Richard made sure to tip the cloakroom attendant and then the two were on their way.

Outside, the November air was absolutely freezing and Richard thanked himself for remembering to bring his overcoat earlier that day. Aside from the street lamps and the occasional lit window, Hyde Street was relatively dark. It was nearing midnight, after all.

Richard turned to the young woman walking beside him. "Miss Andrzejowicz," he said, " _The Raven_ discussed with me that it is probably for the best that you should change your name so that those that took you to America won't be able to find you again. Have you a particular name in mind?"

Karolina nodded, saying, "Stella. Stella Feuerstein."

"A good name," Richard replied. Feuerstein wasn't the most conspicuous surname and there were hundreds of Stellas in San Francisco alone. Karolina – Stella – would be safe under that name.

"I really enjoyed tonight, Sergeant Grayson," Stella said. "I don't know how I could ever repay you for what you did tonight."

"Your gratitude is enough," Richard said. "And I am sure _The Raven_ feels the same."

Stella nodded, saying, "Yes. _The Raven_ has made her feelings to the matter known. She would not let me pay her back for the hundred dollars, saying that I should put it towards my lodgings.

Richard agreed with this thought. He said, "A good piece of advice. But I do have one question, Ms. Feuerstein: why are you not saying _The Raven's_ true name? It's a bit ridiculous to just keep on calling her the name of a bird, isn't it?"

Stella shrugged. "I suppose it's not my place to say," she said. " _The Raven_ is – how you say? – a private person. Perhaps she will one day make herself known to you."

"You know, Stell– Miss Feuerstein," Richard said, his demeanor growing shy despite being a man of twenty-six years of age, "I should like to see you again. This Thursday is Thanksgiving Day and while I have a dinner to attend in the evening, I was wondering if you would like to go for a promenade in Golden Gate Park sometime in the afternoon. We can talk more of your circumstances if it suits you. Or, we can talk of pleasanter things."

"I should like that very much, Sergeant Grayson; either the pleasant or the unpleasant if it means that I should get to talk to once more," Stella said, and then the two of them enjoyed a companionable silence as they finished their journey to the Westmoreland.

Before long, Stella had her room sorted and ready for her stay; it was now time for Richard to say his goodbyes until this Thursday next.

"I suppose this is goodbye for now," Richard said. "May I call on you in two days' time at two o'clock in the afternoon?"

Stella nodded and said her goodbyes.

"It appears my belongings have been delivered," she suddenly said as she pointed out something to Richard.

When Richard turned around to see what Stella was gesturing at, he felt his heart jump into his throat; there, just leaving the Westmoreland, was a short-statured woman in a brown checked coat, a feathered hat worn low on her head.

Richard turned back towards Stella, who was smiling ever so slightly. "Was that-?" Richard said. "Was that _her?_ "

Stella nodded back at him and he had to blink in disbelief as he realized that he, Richard Grayson, had nearly been face-to-face with _The Raven._ The woman who was currently exiting the building.

Bowing his head slightly in farewell to his evening companion, Richard said, "I'll see you this Thursday, Miss Feuerstein!" before he ran out the doors of the Westmoreland in attempt to catch up to this mysterious _Raven._

It turns out that our hero's hasty exit was all for naught; once he was standing on the pavement of Sutter Street, he could no longer see _The Raven_ 's checked coat or feathered hat. He'd lost her.

"I'll meet you soon, I suppose," Richard said to himself as he shoved his hands deeper into his overcoat's pockets, beginning the long walk home. Perhaps it would have been wiser to hail a hansom cab or take a streetcar but Richard felt he was in too dour of a mood to even think of doing so.

Thursday could hardly come soon enough.


	3. A Woman More to be Pitied than Censured

**This is an edited chapter with a change in setting. Instead of 1898 New York City, this is 1890 San Francisco. PM me if you've read the original** **(Part I, Book I, Chapter II, part 1)** **and only want a summary of the changes I've made so that you don't have to reread.**

Thanksgiving morning dawned clear and sunny with a temperature uncharacteristic for the seaside city of San Francisco. While most housewives would find themselves slaving over burning-hot ranges and basting turkeys for most of the day, most business-men and civil servants such as our Sergeant Richard Grayson were lucky enough to have the holiday off.

Still, being the man he was, Sergeant Grayson couldn't help but check into his office at Old City Hall to ensure that all of his work was going smoothly. His like-minded secretary, Ann Brush, was a neat young woman with a plain appearance who, similar to Richard, originally called America's East Coast her home. Richard couldn't begrudge the fact that she was an incredibly hard worker and a bright young woman (she had graduated from Vassar College, after all), but he wouldn't be hard-pressed to admit that she was a dreadfully loud typist; perhaps the loudest this side of the Mississippi.

"Ms. Brush, please," Richard said, "be mindful of how loud you type. I know very few people are present here today but I would like to be able to get some work done before I return home to celebrate this holiday in peace."

Young Ann Brush had the good graces to look ashamed of herself and she was about to hang her head low and to work as unobtrusively as possible when she seemed to remember something quite important and urgent. She began rifling through the papers that lay on her desk, accidentally scattering some of them onto the floor by Richard's feet.

"So sorry, Sergeant," she said as she then bent over to pick up the fallen papers, nearly bumping into Richard in the process. "You being here, I just remembered that I received a letter this morning from a lady who had been waiting outside of your office. She told me that I must give it to you as soon as I saw you next."

Ann then righted herself and with a few more moments of searching all of the paperwork that was on her desk, was able to retrieve the letter she had just spoken about. She handed it in a flourish to Sergeant Grayson who had a slight smile of amusement on his face.

Richard took the letter, but before he opened it, he said, "Did you, by any chance, see what this woman was wearing?"

Shrugging, Ann just said, "I hadn't been paying too close attention, I'm afraid. But I think she was wearing some sort of coat, possibly made out of checked stuff. Other than that, I can't really recall much else. She was quite a bit smaller than me in height; rather diminutive, really. I hope that's of any help, Sergeant."

"Yes, Ms. Brush," Richard said, for that one mention of a coat was all the information that he needed. He took a seat on the edge of Ann's desk - thankfully free of excess papers and receipts - and gestured for her to once more take her seat behind her desk. "You know, I do believe I have some good news for you."

Ann lightly lay her chin atop her hands, her elbows resting on her desk's blotting paper. "Is this any good news to do with the personal life of one Sergeant Grayson?" she said, a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

Richard brushed this off, his face growing just a little warm.

"No," he said, "I'm afraid it doesn't. However, this news does concern you in a way, Ms. Brush. That woman that gave you the note, I am certain, is _The Raven_. I had the fortune to catch a glimpse of her when I was meeting with a mutual friend the other day."

There wasn't a word from Ann as she stared at Sergeant Grayson in shock. Finally, she spoke.

"Really?" she said. "She finally hand-delivered one of her notes? Usually, it's the newsboys outside who hand them to me."

Richard nodded, for he knew that he hadn't been the only one with the San Francisco Police Department who had been working with _The Raven_ on previous cases. While he would usually be the one to receive the credit from the police captain, Richard knew that without the usual organisation of Ann Brush, _The Raven_ , and his other lower officers, he would not have made such great progress this past year as he had.

"But I liked seeing those boys," Ann said, more to herself than to Sergeant Grayson. "I'd sometimes give them a dime for dinner and occasionally some penny-candy."

Richard rolled his eyes at her, but they both knew he didn't mean it in a condescending way. "You can still act charitable towards those newspaper boys," he said. "Nothing is stopping you now, Ms. Brush."

Ann smiled up at Richard. "I know," she said, "but are you ever going to read the note that I gave to you? You kept me in such suspense over this news with _The Raven_ but I do think you've forgotten about the letter!"

Feeling his face grow warmer, Richard quickly took the letter out from his jacket pocket. He opened it hastily and read it aloud.

 _"Sorry so short. 10a Sun. 30. Off. Gordon Ian, Stuart P. 4. Ask for G.L. & V.S. - R."_

Richard couldn't help but laugh incredulously after he finished reading the note.

"Do you understand what this means?" he asked Ann, who shrugged her shoulders delicately but came over to read the note anyway.

As she looked it over, she said, "I suppose that _The Raven_ means for you to go somewhere this Sunday at ten o'clock in the morning. That's the thirtieth. And I suppose there are two people with the initials G.L. and V.S. But I can't understand the rest."

" _Off."_ Richard said. "What could she mean by 'Off'? It's a statement, I am fairly certain."

"May I please have the letter?" Ann asked, before accepting it as Richard handed it to her. She pulled it closer to her face as she squinted her eyes, perhaps trying to read between the lines (not that there were many lines to read between in the first place, however).

The two of them sat in silence with bated breath for a few minutes.

"Gordon Ian," Ann said. "I've never heard of a name like that. Perhaps she meant someone by the name of 'Stuart P. Gordon Ian'?"

Richard shook his head, saying, "I doubt that. It's too long of a name. Maybe she's referring to two people that I should ask about? For how helpful _The Raven_ is, she can be too cryptic for my own sanity sometimes."

Laughing, Ann said, "That is certainly true, Sergeant."

Silence took hold of the room once more for the next two minutes until suddenly, Ann let quota shriek as she jumped up from her chair.

"Sergeant Grayson!" she said, "I think I've realized something!"

Richard motioned for her to continue.

Ann showed the note to Richard as she said, "I think we've been reading this wrong. I've seen this notation, 'P.' and then a number, before. My fiancé, who works with a shipping company near market, sometimes leaves notes written around his house and I've seen him refer to the piers with a majuscule 'P'."

"So," Richard said, "this would be referring to Pier 4. But what about 'Off.' and the name of the men?"

Ann pored over the note for another moment before she said, "Perhaps _The Raven_ , like my fiancé, has a penchant for abbreviating places and locations. Perhaps she meant the office of two men near the docks. It would make sense; there are many shipping companies that work there and if these two men are involved in any white slavery business, perhaps they operate near the docks."

This made sense, so Richard said, "I do think that could be the case."

He paused before he walked back to his desk really quickly, taking a rolled-up paper out from underneath it. He unrolled the paper which, upon inspection, was a map of the city and beckoned Ann to come closer.

"Look here," he said. "Here's Pier 4. It's close to Market Street where several shipping offices are. Perhaps we can find the two men there."

The two of them looked at the map for what seemed like an age before Richard let out a small yet triumphant cry.

"Ms. Brush," he said, "I do believe I've solved this cipher."

Ann looked at him as if to tell him to continue.

"Look here," Richard said, repeating his earlier words. "Look at the streets near Market and the piers. Name them and tell me what you find."

Acquiescing, Ann drew closer to the map and read aloud, "East, Sacramento, California, Market, Steuart...Steuart!"

Richard smiled as he nodded, saying, "It would seem as if _The Raven,_ as intelligent as she is, can occasionally misspell a word. She meant Steuart Street, near Pier 4."

"Which means there's only one man: this Gordon Ian," Ann said. "So, the note says that you're to meet G.L. and V.S. at the office of 'Gordon Ian' on Steuart Street close to Pier 4."

"Ms. Brush," Richard said, "I think you've got it."

Ann smiled and playfully nudged Richard on the shoulder. "I am a college woman after all. I'm glad I could help, Sergeant," she said, before she told him ever-so-firmly that she had a bit more work to be done before she was due back at her boarding-house for her landlady's Thanksgiving Dinner.

Nodding at her, Richard checked his timepiece.

"I do believe I am to meet Miss Feuerstein - the woman to whom _The Raven_ referred in her last letter - at her hotel in around half an hour," he said. "Enjoy your holiday, Ms. Brush."

Thanking him, Ann turned to pack up her work at her desk before she donned her nobby wool coat and left the office. Richard wasn't long in following her and he found that he couldn't wait for his meeting with Stella.

 **oOo**

It wasn't long before Richard stepped off of the streetcar and walked up to the Westmoreland. To his great joy, Stella was already standing outside of the hotel just by the door, a grey cloak around her shoulders and a burgundy satin parasol in her hand. Richard found himself walking quickly towards her and he also very quickly offered her his arm.

"To where are we going, Sergeant Grayson?" Stella asked as she accepted her escort's arm. The two of them stepped back out onto the street and Richard had to hold onto his hat to prevent it from flying out into the maelstrom that was Sutter Street on Thanksgiving Day.

After he had reclaimed his hat and the pair of them began walking down towards Market Street, Richard said, "I had planned on taking the trolley to Golden Gate Park, which in itself is quite large. Perhaps you'd like to see greenhouses or maybe the lakes?"

Stella considered these options for a moment before she shook her head, saying, "Won't those places be quite busy today?"

"Yes," Richard said, but he let Stella continue.

"If we were to want to speak alone - or at least with a bit of privacy," Stella said, "wouldn't we want a more secluded location?"

Richard nodded but pulled a folded-up piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Stella, who unfolded it and read it. She looked her walking companion in the eye and tried to unsuccessfully hide a bout of laughter.

"I am not sure what you were trying to show me, Sergeant Grayson," she said, handing him back the paper, "but this seems to be a note from someone. Perhaps you meant to show me a map?"

Feeling uncharacteristically embarrassed for the third time that day - quite an aberration for our good officer - Richard quickly took the note, folded it, and placed it back in his pocket before he withdrew a different paper. This time, he checked its contents before he handed it to Stella.

"Here's the map I meant for you to see," he said as Stella glanced over it. "It's a map of the park that we'll be visiting. You might like the Arizona Gardens. They usually aren't as busy as the lakes or the greens."

Richard pointed to a spot along the northern end of the map.

"This is where we step off of the trolley. It's not too far of a walk to a majority of the park's attractions and it really is quite lovely this time of year," Richard said.

Stella nodded as she took in the sights indicated on the map before she gestured to the general street around them. "The weather truly is nice today," she said. "It's a bit cold, hence my cape, but the sky is so clear today and such a wonderful shade of blue."

While our good officer could have remarked on the climate or other such meteorological topics, he instead chose to remark on Stella's comment about her cape.

"It is a lovely cape, Miss Feuerstein," he said, by means of small talk. "Is it a new acquisition?"

Shaking her head and smiling at him, Stella said, "No, but it is one of the many articles of clothing that all of May-Eileen's girls are given once they arrive. Despite our profession, she would say, we were always to look our best. That is why I own countless ensembles, waists, walking skirts, and even a silk evening gown. They're all a few years out of style but they still are such fine clothes and once I have time to make them over, they'll look like the latest _mode_."

Richard looked at her. "Do you sew, Miss Feuerstein?" he said.

"I do, Sergeant," Stella said. "I am no seamstress by any means but I do enjoy the feeling of making something of my own that I can enjoy and wear. Perhaps now I will actually have the time to make over my wardrobe and maybe even sew a few new pieces to add to it - I still am looking for employment."

As the two of them arrived at the trolley stop, Richard reached into his pocket and withdrew a dime.

"For our trolley fares," he explained to Stella when she shot him a questioning glance.

Stella closed her hand over his and gestured for him to put the change away.

"Do not worry," she said. "I can pay for my own fare."

With that, Stella took out a nickel of her own and, when Richard didn't take out the appropriate change for his own single fare, she shot him yet another glance as if to tell him to do so.

Richard cleared his throat as he saw the streetcar approach them. "What I was going to say, Miss Feuerstein," he said, "was a question related to your prospects of employment, but perhaps that should wait."

The two of them glanced at how full the streetcar was. It would seem as if half of San Francisco had the similar idea to head over to one of the largest public parks in the nation. Conversation - intimate conversation at that - would prove to be difficult in such a crowded setting.

"On second thought," Richard amended, "the trolley ride shouldn't take too long. If it's no trouble, we can continue this conversation at the park."

Stella nodded and the two of them quickly boarded the streetcar.

While Richard had long since grown accustomed to San Francisco's streetcars and the boredom presented therein, the experience was entirely new to Miss Feuerstein. Richard had been blessed to have grown up in New York City so mingling with the masses of San Francisco on a streetcar was no big deal at all. But for Stella, this was an adventure.

It was an adventure that was over all too soon as Richard soon motioned to Stella that their stop was the next.

"Is this Sutter Street?" Stella asked, gathering her parasol and her purse.

Richard nodded, although he added, "This is the Sutter Street trolley, but yes, we're here at the park."

It would seem, reader, as if that is where many of this streetcars' riders were intent on getting off, as they too left the streetcar at the same time as Richard and Stella. In fact, it was worrying on Stella's part ash she had no intention of being caught up in the rush. While she could have been fretting about her skirt hem being torn or her parasol getting lost in the fray, she more pragmatically worried that she was going to be left behind or trampled in the maelstrom.

As if to soothe Stella's fears, Richard reached over and grabbed her hand, helping her out of the streetcar, before they continued their walk through to the main park. Along the way, the two of them passed by a flower seller, who so often was ubiquitous around trolley stops and train stations.

The flower seller, a middle-aged man accompanied by his young daughter, seemed to have seen better days if his beat-up cap and coat were any indication. Nevertheless, he had a cheerful grin on his face and his daughter had a similar disposition.

"Would you care to buy a flower, miss?" he asked Stella. "It's only a nickel."

Stella, instantly in love with the little orange blooms the man offered her, quickly nodded. She reached into her purse to grab a coin and to pay the man but it would seem as if Richard beat her to it, as he quickly paid the man and took the flower for Stella.

"Oh, thank you ever so much," Stella said to the flower seller, and then she repeated her gratitude to Richard.

Richard offered his companion his arm once more as the two of them left the tracks and headed towards the Arizona gardens.

"So, Miss Feuerstein," Richard said, "forgive me for being frank but this was not just a social visit. I have quite a few questions to ask you that pertain to your previous circumstances."

Stella was gracious in her response. "Of course, I do not mind, Sergeant. But my name is Stella. It is quite a beautiful name and I find that it doesn't get enough use."

Richard felt himself smile unexpectedly at this and he turned away to hide his expression. As he turned back to Stella, he said, "It wouldn't really be proper if we're amongst others, you know…Stella. But, I suppose if we're alone together in conversation, there is no true harm in it."

Stella's smile was positively beaming and Richard felt a genuine happiness to see it.

"And what shall I call you?" Stella said, playfully squeezing Richard's forearm as she did so. "'Sergeant' is awfully formal. It is quite the chore to call you such when it is just us together, talking. Alone. Shall I call you by your forename as well?"

"Well…yes, I suppose," Richard said, stammering like an enamoured schoolboy. "'Richard' it is."

By this time, the two of them had just passed by the greenhouses and rose bushes of the more popular areas of Golden Gate Park. While Stella had been tempted to stop and look at the sheer variety of flowers in bloom there – the alstroemeria blooms were particularly vibrant and she had to resist all temptation to just run over there and pluck one for herself – Richard led her towards a more closed-off area of the park.

"The Arizona Garden," he said as the two of them stood in the middle of the landscaped area.

Stella knelt by one of the plants that was still growing heartily despite autumn being nearly over. "Serg- Richard," she said, "whatever sort of a plant is this? I have never seen anything like it before."

Richard smiled softly to himself as he knelt down beside Stella. He took her hand in his and placed it gently against the plant in front of them. A slight shock went through Stella's body as she recoiled upon touching it but she soon composed herself.

"This," Richard said, releasing Stella's hand as he stood back up and brushed off his trousers, "is a cactus. I'm afraid I don't know which particular type; botany was never my strong suit. A cactus is a plant that grows in very dry and hot weather. It's quite amazing, really, the conditions it can live in. They tend to grow in climates such as California's or Arizona's."

"Hence the name of the garden!" Stella said, her eyes wide open with wonder. She, too, stood up but unlike Richard, began inspecting the different varieties of succulents that the garden held.

"Stella," Richard said, "please remember that I do need to ask you some questions right now about your previous life and how you came to be in San Francisco."

Humbling herself as she realized she had gotten distracted, Stella nodded to Richard and beckoned him to sit next to her on a nearby bench.

"Forgive me," she said. "I had gotten distracted. But let me begin…"

Thus began Stella's recounting of her childhood in Russian Poland. Born to a wealthy Jewish household, young Miss Karolina Andrzejowicz enjoyed a comfortable life. She was able to go to school, the theatre, and many other places that a girl such as herself would have been considered lucky to go to.

Richard interrupted her, saying, "You're a Hebrew?"

For some reason, that seemed to surprise him more so than the knowledge that this former prostitute once belonged to a wealthy European family.

Stella rolled her eyes at him in jest as she said, "I did choose the name 'Feuerstein' for a reason, Richard. I am quite proud of my heritage although I do not really practice the religion of my birth any longer. It is hard here, I find."

She sat there for a moment in silence until Richard seemed to realize what she was waiting for, as he very quickly said, "Please, Stella, continue. I'm sorry for interrupting you."

Nodding, Stella continued. She brought up her rivalry with her older sister and how her parents never seemed to care for her too much.

"When my mother and father heard of a man willing to offer me work in America – especially in a city as far away as San Francisco – they were eager for me to go," Stella said. "I suppose they were so eager to be rid of me that they paid no attention to who this man really was."

"Mr. Gordon?" Richard asked?

"Yes," Stella said. "He is the most vile of creatures, preying on young and naïve girls such as myself. My parents were fools to send me away to him but I was even more foolish to agree."

Richard felt his heart stop for a moment at hearing this information. Never before had he felt such a personal investment in a case; not even with what happened all those years ago in good old Gotham. Perhaps it was a mistake to continue working on this case but he found that he couldn't just leave Stella to the possibility of unfinished justice.

"Wait," Richard said," you said you were a girl when this happened. When Mr. Gordon brought you to San Francisco and sold you to May-Eileen's, how old were you?"

Stella wrung her hands as she forced the words out of her mouth, as if this were something to be ashamed about.

"I was only seventeen when I was first brought to America," she said, not meeting Richard's gaze. "And I was not immediately placed with Mother May-Eileen. That was only this past year. Before, I was at a two-bit – how do you say it? – 'bordello'. I despised it there and I made no money at all. Mr. Sion requested that I gave all my earnings to him."

"How long has it been?" Richard asked. "Since you were brought here, I mean."

Holding up her thumb and index finger, Stella said, "It has been two years. I turned nineteen years of age this past March."

Richard nodded along to this as he processed all that he had learned this day. It was a lucky break that Stella Feuerstein had still been a minor when she had been brought to America. Otherwise, despite all of his legal knowledge, Richard knew his hands would have been tied. For some reason, however illogical, the most recent version of the California penal code only classified sexual slavery as being illegal if the woman was under eighteen years of age when she was coerced to enter the trade. Stella, despite her misfortune, was at least fortunate enough in that one matter. And this Mr. Sion would be one to investigate…

Stella hid her mouth behind one gloved hand as she yawned delicately.

"I fear I am growing quite tired, Sergeant Grayson," she said. "I do hope this new information can be of use to you but to divulge it was incredibly taxing on me. May I request that we change the subject to lighter things such as the weather, this holiday, or even politics?"

Richard agreed, but he felt as if he had to make sure of one more important matter before the frivolities began.

"Are you in need of any money?" he said, before he amended himself. "What I meant was to ask if you have sufficient funds for your room and board at the Westmoreland. Please, if you need any help, financial or otherwise, let me know."

Stella took this offer with good humor, reassuring Richard that she had more than enough money in her savings along with a plan to go looking for a job within the next few months.

"We have had this conversation already, Richard," she said. "If I ever do change my mind, you will know.

Richard seemed to accept this.

Then, the talk shifted to that of how, as the sun was beginning to set, the light perfectly framed a particular cactus, along with the usual small-talk one can expect. The day went on for only a little while longer before Richard found himself escorting Stella back to her hotel.

"I hope you enjoy your first Thanksgiving here, Miss Feuerstein," he said as he kissed her hand in farewell. "My own Thanksgiving dinner will start soon and I should not care to miss it."

Stella, too, said her farewells before she retreated to her room to change into proper dinner attire.

However, later that night at one of the finest restaurants in town, Richard found himself barely able to stomach the turkey, oysters, and champagne as his mind raced over the prospect of his upcoming meeting on Sunday with _G.L._ and _V.S._


	4. The Good Officer Chastened

**This is an edited chapter with a change in setting. Instead of 1898 New York City, this is 1890 San Francisco. PM me if you've read the original** **(Part I, Book I, Chapter II, part 2)** **and only want a summary of the changes I've made so that you don't have to reread.**

As per usual, despite it being a Sunday, Richard Grayson found himself awake long before the sun rose above San Francisco's skyline. Unlike most mornings, wherein our good sergeant would breakfast at an establishment only a stone's throw away from his office, perhaps enjoying a few cups of coffee while reading the morning paper, Richard Grayson was already preparing himself for the long trek to the docks across from Steuart Street. If he was lucky, he remarked to himself as he changed out of his sleep attire and into a less-conspicuous workingman's vestments, he'd be able to catch the trolley for most of the long journey from Pacific Heights to the east side docks. An uncharacteristic bout of nerves overtook him as he wondered who these two men he needed to meet were. Perhaps they were no better than Mr. Gordon himself.

A quick splash of water to his face quickly righted him – why would _The Raven_ request he meet with unsavoury characters if she wanted to help his investigation? - and soon, Richard was out the door of his house and on his way to the docks. He had found no time to break his fast and the offer of a hot cup of coffee from his housekeeper was quickly shot down.

The morning commute itself was far from dreary despite the hardened expressions on many of the workingmen who were seated haphazardly within the streetcar. Richard tried his hardest not to feel too out of place for it had been quite some time since he had last had to go undercover amongst the _hoi polloi_. He'd feel more confident if he was wearing his normal three-piece suit and not these ill-fitting vestments. If only his former employer were there to observe him…

After a little more than half an hour, Richard found himself disembarking at the end of Market Street with a short walk to the Pier 4. It could hardly be called a long and tedious journey but throughout the trolley ride, Richard had found himself wishing he had brought a small book or a newspaper with him, especially since one of the women in the streetcar had been making eyes at him and he hadn't known how to respond. He'd just cleared his throat uncomfortably and looked down towards his shoes, wishing for the ride to be over.

Luckily, before long, Richard found himself at Pier 4. There was no sight of the two men with whom he was supposed to meet and Richard remembered that _The Raven'_ s note gave no actual address for Mr. Gordon's shipping offices – perhaps an oversight on her part. To his good fortune, however, Richard found a small sign on the pier that read " _Pier closed on Sundays. Company offices can be found at No. - Steuart Street. Open from noon to late Sundays."_

"Perfect," Richard said to himself as he headed over to Mr. Gordon's office. Despite the office being closed at this hour, Richard knew it would award him some privacy with the two men he was supposed to meet.

Just as he expected, there were two figures standing nonchalantly outside Mr. Gordon's (currently closed) shipping offices. Richard walked up to them, trying to ignore the tight knot of apprehension in his stomach. Hopefully, his facial expression was calm and collected. He was a seasoned police officer, after all.

Whatever Richard had expected the two men he was to meet to look like, these men were certainly not it. In fact, one of the men, young and of short stature with unruly hair, could only have been described as looking a bit _green._

"Chlorosis," the young man said, as if he had guessed what Richard was thinking. "I have chlorosis." He lit a match against the brick wall behind him, touching it to the tip of the hand-rolled cigarette in his mouth.

"Do you think you could help me, by any chance?" Richard asked the young man, who seemed to care more about taking a drag from his cigarette than to reply promptly.

This young man was very promptly elbowed by his companion: a taller and older man. _Clearly of African descent_ , Richard remarked to himself. _What an odd pair._

The taller man muttered something to the other, who promptly threw away his cigarette and adjusted his hat.

The young man nearly tripped over himself as he ran up to Richard. "I'll do my best, sir," he said. "To help you, that is."

Richard kept a straight face at this but on the inside, he had to ask himself why this dock-worker was calling him, who appeared to be just the average everyman, "sir". He looked at the young man in front of him.

"All right,", Richard said, "Mister…"

"Garfield Logan, sir."

"Right," Richard said. "Anyways, Mr. Logan, I was told to meet with you and your associate today. You see, I'm looking for someone. A Mr. Ian Gordon. I am well aware his office is closed until after today but I have a meeting here at these offices at ten o'clock sharp. Perhaps you and your companion know something about that?"

Garfield, at hearing the way Richard talked down to him, lost some of his excitement. His voice grew stiff and coldly polite as he gestured to the other man who had been waiting with him, saying, "My 'companion,' sir, has a name."

The other man came up to the other two and Richard hesitantly shook his hand.

"Victor Stone," he said, eyeing Richard with what seemed to be a healthy amount of suspicion. "And I suppose you're the one we were told to meet?"

Richard nodded.

 _So, this must be_ G.L. _and_ V.S. _Curious._

Richard cleared his throat before saying, "I'm looking for information about a Mr. Ian Gordon. Do you happen to know anything about him?

"It depends who's asking," Victor said, eyeing Richard with a healthy amount of suspicion.

Thinking on his feet, Richard supplied the first name he could think of. "James Lynam Molloy," he said. In retrospect, the name of a British songwriter might not have been the best choice but he sincerely hoped the two men in front of him knew nothing about transatlantic parlor music.

"Right," Victor said, and Richard could've sworn he saw the other man smile briefly before returning to his aforementioned skepticism. "And my real name is George Leybourne. I know my way around an English music hall, too, you know. Now, who are you really?"

Richard cursed to himself at having been so transparent.

"I can't say," he said, lamely. "But, please, I do need to know more about this Mr. Gordon. It's imperative that you tell me all you know about him!"

Garfield let out a burst of laughter at this as he interrupted the serious discourse Victor and Richard were clearly in the midst of.

"Ah, get a hold of yourself, Vic," he said, before turning towards Richard who felt quite keenly that this situation would not be going according to plan. "And you, sir, with your talk of 'imperative's and 'whereabouts.' You ain't no workingman. More likely you're some copper on his beat."

Richard didn't bother with trying to avoid this interrogation as he was quickly growing impatient. He looked skeptically at Garfield.

"How did you know?" he said.

Beaming widely, as he clearly took pride in this particular sentiment, Garfield said, "You think I ain't never run in with the cops before? Don't flatter yourself."

While Richard was about to shut Garfield up, Victor was the one to do so.

"Garfield!" he said, clapping his hand over the other man's face. "What do you think you're doing? Trying to get us caught? You saw Gordon's goons around here."

Victor released his hold on Garfield before he turned towards Richard, saying, "Perhaps, sir, we should continue this conversation somewhere more private. There's a coffee saloon not far from here on East Street; decent food, busy. If that's all right with you, Officer…?"

"Sergeant Grayson," Richard said. "It's a bit early for luncheon, Mr. Stone, but I do believe that that is the best course of action for now."

As Victor collected his hat and coat and Garfield righted himself once more – after a cursory wipe of his face with a grimy handkerchief – the three men began the short walk to the suggested coffee saloon.

 **oOo**

The establishment itself proved to be absolutely unremarkable in Richard's eyes. Working men in ill-fitted clothes completely filled the place, smoking cheap cigars and drinking the ubiquitous pitch-black beverage. Richard enjoyed coffee, he would admit to himself. He drank a cup every morning with his breakfast. But, that was fine coffee bought from a French grocer's. This saloon's coffee, from the looks of it, seemed more like coal tar.

Whatever patronizing thoughts of his that were about to continue, Richard soon had his internal dialogue interrupted when Victor and Garfield brought three mugs of hot coffee over to the small table he was sitting at.

Richard thanked them, hoping his polite smile was not as acerbic as he felt it was.

"So," Richard said, setting the mug down and resolving himself to not even try a sip, "How did two young men such as yourselves come to find work at Mr. Gordon's docks? You make the odd pair and Mr. Logan's chlorosis – a disease more commonly found in virginal girls – should render him ill-suited for physical labor."

Garfield snorted in laughter before saying, "Clearly, Sergeant, I ain't neither of those things. But, I've been told if I could afford to eat better, my chlorosis'd be gone."

"And what about you, Mr. Stone?" Richard said. "How did you come to find work with Mr. Gordon's company?"

"A little bird told us to work there," Victor said, his meaning implicitly understood by Richard. "'Bout two months ago as neither of us were employed."

Here, Garfield interjected by saying, "Hey, Vic! I had a job; over at that hash house on Minna."

Victor amended his previous statement. "What I meant was, we were both offered the job at those docks. It's a better job than most; pays well."

He gestured to his two legs, slightly pulling up one side of his trousers. Richard was surprised to see two prosthetic legs – surprisingly not crudely made for one of Mr. Stone's economic background. Surely a man with injuries such as that should not have been working at the docks?

As if to answer Richard's unspoken question, Victor lowered his trouser leg and said, "I had enough schooling and some connections from my time in the Army to persuade the boss to let me work in his office. And Garfield here was charismatic enough to get himself a job as a messenger boy of sorts. He's too scrawny to work by the docks, anyhow."

"Hey!"

"But apparently," Victor continued, "this company's owner, your Mr. Gordon, is up to no good. You're lucky you came when you did; otherwise, there'd have been some heads busted. Even though the offices are closed, some of Gordon's goons were hanging about earlier."

"Mr. Stone, you know _The Raven?_ " Richard asked, still quite behind on his processing of this new information. Truth be told, he had stopped listening carefully just before Garfield had added his two cents to the conversation. But, he did note that Mr. Gordon seemed to hold quite a position of influence around these docks.

Victor nodded. "And we haven't been able to find anything about Mr. Gordon and his particular vice-ridden business, if you understand my meaning. He keeps a tight ship and not even Garfield's oversized ears" - this earned Victor a slap in the arm from said listener - "have been able to catch any whispered information from between the other workers. I haven't yet been able to go creeping around his paperwork yet in the office. We've tried coming here all hours of the night but we also can't lose the jobs that we have. So far, nothing."

"But if you were to find out anything," Richard said, "to whom would you report?"

Here Garfield gave his two cents. "To Ra- to _the Raven,_ sir. And we're bound to find out something. I'm sure of it!"

 _How odd,_ Richard noted. _Garfield clearly knows more than he is letting on about_ the Raven.

Groaning softly to himself, Richard said, "Mr. Logan, if we're to be partners in this enterprise, I can't have you calling me 'sir.' My name is Sergeant Grayson, if you'll remember."

As a response, Garfield stared blankly at him. Clearly, Richard would need to rephrase his words.

"We're to be working together, Mr. Logan, as it is _the Raven'_ s work to send the three of us to investigate this case," Richard said. "From now on, you and Mr. Stone will report both to me and _the Raven,_ but to me first. Is that clear?"

The other two men nodded in agreement.

"As neither of you have found anything worthwhile, I suppose I'll return to my regular work now," Richard said, not noticing his companions bristle slightly at his poor choice in words. It seemed as if Officer Grayson had put himself on an unnaturally high pedestal once again. "I may be found at this address in Pacific Heights: the house at the corner of Vallejo and Webster Streets, if you must know. Please, do keep me updated."

Both Victor and Garfield gave him snide looks although Richard could tell that they did their utmost to hide them.

"Will do, sir," Garfield said, his tone no longer as reverent as before. "Will do."

 **oOo**

On his way home from the docks - and this time, he had called a hansom cab - Richard found himself unhappy. Normally, he felt so in control of the situation whenever he was sent to investigate something. Meeting the two dock workers had been a surprise; _the Raven_ had clearly chosen him two capable compatriots. Perhaps Richard shouldn't have been quite so short-tempered with them… He'd be lucky if they did decide to contact him soon with any developments pertaining to the case.

Richard Grayson sighed and sat back in his seat, gazing out the window at the gloom of San Francisco's November skies.

 **oOo**

The very next day, Richard arrived at Old City Hall with a leather folio full of notes he'd stayed up all night working on.

"Good morning, Miss Brush!" he said cheerfully as he finally arrived at his desk, setting his folio on top it and nodding at his secretary.

"Morning, Sergeant," Ann Brush said, as she stood up from her post and walked over to Richard and his folio. "Were you up late again?"

Richard nodded as he handed her the folio.

"There's not much of substance in it," he said, "but I was able to ascertain that Ms. Feuerstein was originally sold to a Chinatown bordello run by a Mr. Charles Sion in 1888, where she was employed for the next twenty months. I figured that I should pay this Mr. Sion a visit sometime this week. I do have more time to do so ever since the captain let me have this assignment."

"You can say that again, Sergeant," Ann said, "I was worried whenever he would ask me where you were, as you weren't doing your job. It's good to know you're able to devote more time to this."

"Definitely," Richard said. "But, Miss Brush, do you think you would be able to help me revisit the penal and civil codes? I know that those are more typically the domain of those in the law business but I figured that we cannot be too careful when it comes to finding justice for Ms. Feuerstein."

Ann gave Richard a small smile as she handed him back his folio.

"You seem to care an awful lot for this case; perhaps it is the girl?" she said.

Richard nodded, grimacing. "Such a personal investment on my part makes me more liable in this field of work; even more, if the captain were to hear about this, I might lose the case. However, for this particular case, just this once, I'm willing to do so."

"Good," Ann said. "As for the two codes, I'll have an annotated series of notes ready for you on your desk by Wednesday at the latest."

"Perfect," Richard said, before he left Ms. Brush to continue on his own work. While being out in public and working with people towards his cases was infinitely more exciting, Richard was always loath to the mountains of paperwork and legal technicalities that took up the majority of his time.

 **oOo**

It was this next Thursday when Richard, armed with a folio of both his and Ms. Brush's notes, arrived in front of a nondescript wooden building just off of Kearny Street – startlingly close to his office. As was seemingly now the usual, Richard was dressed in a similarly nondescript suit, most likely found at some second-hand shop south of Market.

So, this was Mr. Charles Sion's two-bit brothel. A sign on the windowpane proclaimed that " _Only White ladies for company and pleasure found here. Yellow or Negro callers or women not welcome."_ Richard eyed the sign warily as he entered the brothel, shuddering once he was able to see the foyer in full.

In a way to May-Eileen's second-class boarding house, the women in Mr. Sion's establishment flitted from client to client, dressed in gauzy negligee. But, unlike May-Eileen's bordello, this particular establishment showed great signs of wear and neglect. Dirt caked the wallpaper and the gas lights flickered so that it would seem they would soon sputter out. There was no joy amongst either the girls or their patrons and there was no accompanying music to offset the heavy silence that blanketed the room. Even at May-Eileen's, there had been the requisite blindfolded pianist in the parlor.

One of the prostitutes approached Richard. The poor girl had only been about to proposition him when he instead denied her an hour's wages and asked about her boss instead.

"Sorry, miss," Richard said, as he eyed the girl in front of him with a similar wariness as before, "but do you know where I could find Mr. Sion?"

The girl regarded Richard with suspicion.

"Why?" she said, still a bit annoyed at having lost a potential customer. There was no doubt that she'd seen cops before to come and try to shut down the place.

Richard quickly said, "We have a personal arrangement between the two of us. Business arrangement, that is."

The girl nodded, seeming to accept this flimsy explanation.

"He's in there," she said, gesturing with her chin to a closed door just off of the main room. "It's his office. Just knock and then go in."

Thanking her, Richard went over to Mr. Sion's office and knocked, before letting himself in. There, sitting in a threadbare armchair was the man whom Richard presumed to be Mr. Sion. He was a tall man, completely bald, with what seemed to be syphilitic sores and scars all over his face. When he offered his hand to Richard, our police officer was quite reticent to shake it.

"What can I do for you, Mister…?" Charles Sion said. He gestured to a wooden chair next to him, in which Richard took his seat.

Richard, thinking quickly on his feet, said, "Fallon. Henry Fallon. I heard that you are the man to talk to concerning a little matter of mine, Mr. Sion."

Mr. Sion leaned forward in his seat, resting his chin on his hand. "That depends, Mr. Fallon, on what your little matter is, you see. I ain't in the habit of transacting no business with just any man."

"Well, Mr. Sion," Richard said, keeping his composure quite masterfully, "regarding your – how do you say? – acquisition of talent for this business, I was wondering how it happens. You see, I'm sort of interested in starting up an establishment of my own – I already own a building not too far from here that I'm planning on using - and I was looking for advice. One of the girls I know couldn't have recommended yours more highly, so I thought to myself, 'Charles Sion is the man to see.' And, here I am."

You will see, reader, that Mr. Sion, like the rest of Mankind, liked to have his self-confidence reassured by compliments from those around him.

Charles Sion preened slightly as he listened to Richard's sales pitch. After a pregnant pause, in which he must have been considering this offer of mentorship, he responded.

"You seem to be a clever man, Mr. Fallon," he said. "I see in you a businessman much as myself when I was a younger man."

What followed was a recounting on Mr. Sion's part of his own – frankly, unremarkable – childhood and adolescence. Eventually, Charles Sion's ramblings changed into the conversation that Richard had wanted to have in the first place; how he, Mr. Sion, found himself in his current area of employment.

"You see," Mr. Sion said, "the most important part of running a business such as this ain't in the services we offer themselves. It's the girls and you got to get them for cheap."

"For cheap, you say?" Richard said. "Would you recommend any particular places where I can find these girls? I've heard of a few but I'm looking for quality, you understand me?"

Nodding, Mr. Sion took a piece of foolscap out of a drawer in the side table to his left. He scribbled down a few words with a worn-down pencil and handed the sheet to Richard.

"Here," Mr. Sion said. "There's a man, Mr. Gordon; 's got an office over on Steuart. Great man, great girls, and all for a very affordable price, if you understand what I'm saying. He'll help you make your business worth your while, if you know what I mean. He'll help you get your establishment in operation."

Richard pondered this for a minute, eventually thanking Mr. Sion and saying, "Will do, Mr. Sion. Will do. But, is there any guarantee that Mr. Gordon will help any old Tom, Dick, or Harry such as myself? Or would he be requiring a sort of recommendation?"

Mr. Sion leaned over and patted Richard's hand reassuringly, saying, "Don't you worry, my boy. Just tell Gordon once you meet him that it was me that sent you. He knows me well."

"Will that work?" Richard said. "That's all I need to do?"

Mr. Sion nodded heartily, saying, "For sure. The two of us've worked together many years."

"Swell," Richard said. This was perfect and he tried not to let Mr. Sion see his jubilation at how things had turn out. "I can't thank you enough, Mr. Sion, for how you've helped me today."

Smiling, Mr. Sion said, "My pleasure, Henry, my pleasure. Please, let me know of any business developments."

Richard gave Mr. Sion a smile of his own, though this one was far smaller and secretive than the other man's, as he wished Mr. Sion farewell and left the bordello.

Indeed, Mr. Sion had proved to be more help than he, perhaps, could have imagined.

 **oOo**

Time seemed to move very quickly at Old City Hall for Richard Grayson after his visit with Mr. Sion. One year faded into the next and it wasn't long before Richard had been able to finally meet Mr. Gordon in person and bring him to the police station for questioning. Mr. Sion wasn't long afterwards and the two of them quickly confessed guilt to having brought a minor into the country for the purposes of prostitution. Such a crime was only punishable by a five-year sentence to prison and Richard was loath to let the two men be let off so easily. It felt cheap and a disservice to Stella, in Richard's eyes, but he knew that there wasn't anything more that he could do. While a rigid upholding of the law ensured an even meting out of justice, sometimes it still didn't seem entirely fair.

Richard would never admit it, but the holiday season was quite lonely for him. He had no family nor any close confidants at work to share Christmas and the New Year with; he had only been in San Francisco for a little less than a year, after all. And it wasn't as if Stella had ever celebrated Christmas; to invite her over also wouldn't have been the most proper of choices for a bachelor such as Richard.

At least Richard had had the company of his housekeeper, Mrs. O'Brien, throughout the winter; and, while the early days of the year 1891 continued on, Richard contented himself to waiting for the upcoming trial. He had sent a letter to Stella, telling her to alert _The Raven_ in some capacity as to the case's developments. A week after his letter to Stella, he received yet another note from _The Raven_ on his desk. It hadn't said much other than that _The Raven_ had been in contact with Garfield Logan and Victor Stone, and now they, along with Stella and _The Raven,_ were altogether up to date. Now, all the five of them had to do was wait until the trial was over and Mr. Gordon and Mr. Sion were sentenced to prison.

 **oOo**

It was nearly March when Richard could finally say that it was all over. Both Mr. Gordon and Mr. Sion had begun their five-year prison sentences and Stella had gotten back on her feet, having found a job working as a stenographer of some sort. Stella had held up surprisingly well as a witness during the trial and Richard admitted to her afterwards that he was proud of her.

Upon reading the news of Mr. Gordon and Mr. Sion's fates in the _Examiner,_ the _Call,_ the _Chronicle,_ and the _Daily Herald,_ Richard knew that it was time for the five people who had helped the case discreetly finally meet (himself included). So, he sent a quick telegram to Stella's place of residence, the Westmoreland hotel, announcing that the five of them were due to meet at that location in about a week's time. The afternoon of Sunday, the first of March, seemed as if it would suit everyone's schedules. Now, all Richard would have to do was wait. Perhaps, then, he'd finally learn _The Raven_ 's true identity.


	5. In Which a Group Nearly Becomes Historic

**This is an edited chapter with a change in setting. Instead of 1898 New York City, this is 1891 San Francisco. PM me if you've read the original** **(Part I, Book I, Chapter III)** **and only want a summary of the changes I've made so that you don't have to reread.**

Finally, the first of March arrived. Richard would be lying if he said that he had spent the days leading up to the meeting at the Westmoreland just idling about the streets of the city. He was never the type of man to waste his time by pacing the floor or fiddling with the various scientific instruments on his office desk. Instead, Richard had been so caught up in the other quotidian duties of a San Francisco police officer that he had nearly forgot about the Sunday meeting until he had been jolted out of his stupor by the incessant ringing of church bells.

 _Twelve. That would mean that it was noon_ , Richard thought. He was in his office, never having been one to attend church services of his own volition, and thus, he was one of the only people present in Old City Hall at that time of day.

Richard belatedly remembered his housekeeper, Mrs. O'Brien, would have had dinner already prepared back at his house in Pacific Heights. While Mrs. O'Brien couldn't be called anything other than decent in her housework, Richard could acknowledge that her apricot ice-cream, which was only ever made on a Sunday, was more than adequate. Perhaps if he caught the trolley within the next few minutes, he'd have enough time to dine comfortably and still arrive on time at the Westmoreland Hotel.

He quickly grabbed his hat from where it was resting on the office hatrack – his hunger was slowly making itself more known as the minutes wore on and Richard was glad he had remembered about his awaiting dinner. Sometimes, he thought ruefully, he could get so involved in his work that he'd accidentally forgo meals.

Rushing out the office doors, Richard looked around for the nearest streetcar or any waiting commuters. As there were none, he surmised that a trolley had just recently left the stop. If he were to remain punctual – something that our good sergeant had always aspired to – it would have been better if he were to have called a hansom cab.

And so, he did. It took a few moments before an available cab pulled up to Richard, who quickly climbed in.

"Where to?" the cabdriver asked, giving Richard a quick once-over. Cops were always running from here to there, making demands and then reversing them. Cops were easy to identify even if they weren't in their usual uniform; it was their manner. In the cabdriver's opinion, this copper at least looked as if he'd pay handsomely for the driver's troubles.

Richard gave his address.

"Oh, Pacific Heights!" the cabdriver said, his voice quickly growing too sarcastic for so professional a setting. "A rather swanky neighborhood for one such as yourself, officer!"

Perhaps this cabdriver had meant to rile Richard up with this talk, but our good Sergeant would have none of it.

"Yes," Richard said curtly, hoping his tone would dissuade the cabdriver from making unnecessary conversation.

Luckily for Sergeant Grayson, this cabdriver knew when a fight was lost and, as one would colloquially say, "kept his trap shut."

So, for Richard, his bowler hat in his lap and his mind going a mile a minute reviewing all evidence he had been given thus far, the ride passed relatively quickly and painlessly. A few times, he felt his ire grow as the hansom happened to hit a particularly deep pothole or a protruding paving stone, but he forced himself to remain calm. Deep and methodical breathing hadn't failed him yet and, in fact, helped him to mull things over a bit more.

Richard was so lost in thought that he almost didn't remember stepping out of his cab, throwing the driver a couple of half-dollars for his trouble (far too much for so short of a ride, but the cabdriver wasn't about to complain), or hurrying up the steps of his familiar front porch.

It wasn't long before Richard was seated in front of a plain table setting at his usual dining table as Mrs. O'Brien placed a bowl of some sort of soup in front of him. The rest of dinner passed by quickly and, if Richard had paid a bit more attention to his household staff, he would've noticed Mrs. O'Brien's disappointment at how distractedly her employer consumed her famed Sunday roast. Indeed, the Sergeant didn't even seem to enjoy his favorite apricot ice-cream, instead eating the contents of the cut-crystal ice-cream dish rather hastily as he hurried to race out of his front door.

In all honesty, Richard would later feel something awful about how he treated Mrs. O'Brien and how distracted he was that afternoon. Indeed, he would later apologize to his housekeeper and the two of them would sit down and have a cup of tea in the kitchen at around midnight of that same day.

However, Richard was less than self-aware of his social faux-pas in this moment, for, according to his timepiece, it was nearing two o'clock. He would have to catch the very next trolley if he wanted to arrive at the Westmoreland Hotel on time for the meeting that he had planned.

As luck would have it, Richard was able to catch the very next trolley and soon found himself at the corner of Sutter Street, whereby there was another trolley he'd need to catch in order to go down the street to Stella's hotel. Providence must've been on Richard Grayson's side, for he soon stood in front of the Westmoreland Hotel and it was still fifteen minutes until three o'clock.

 _Good,_ he thought. He quite enjoyed being punctual.

Richard debated standing around the outside of the hotel with a few bums and broads on the street but he soon spotted a familiar face looking out the window from the hotel lobby.

"Stella – Miss Feuerstein!" he called as he gave a grand salute, although he knew that the girl couldn't possibly hear him through the windowpanes.

However, Stella must've had quite a keen eye, for she spotted Richard and quickly came outside, careful not to break into a run.

"Miss Feuerstein," Richard repeated as she approached him. He tipped his hat respectfully and gave her proffered hand a delicate kiss by way of greeting. "I hope you are well this Sunday."

"Yes," Stella said, blushing slightly at the almost-reverent kiss Richard had bestowed upon her kid-gloved hand, "thank you, Sergeant Grayson."

Richard gave a minute smile as he said, "I do believe you can call me by my Christian name, Miss Feuerstein. We have known each other for long enough."

"You have mentioned so before," was Stella's reply, as Richard held out his arm for her to take. "I must have forgotten. Please, do forgive me."

The two of them swept quickly into the Westmoreland's lobby, eager to meet with the others.

Richard looked briefly at the hotel's lobby around them, noting every patron that seemed to be milling about. It was relatively quiet; nothing like the hotels near Union Station or any of the other popular touristic haunts in New York. None of the guests in particular seemed to stand out, as all were in their Sunday clothes and thus had a curious air of uniformity about them.

"I trust the others have received my telegram?" Richard said.

Stella nodded. "Please, Richard," she said, gesturing with her chin to a corridor along their left, "if you will follow me, we can meet in one of the writing rooms. They're always empty this time of day. Much will be explained there."

Picking up on her hinting gesture, Richard further grasped Stella's arm in his as he allowed himself to be led to a small and intimate room. He let himself feel almost disappointed at the fact that he wouldn't be seeing Stella's rooms – he and his boyhood co-conspirators would often play-act at sleuthing in one of their bedrooms after classes had ended for the day and Richard found himself reminiscing of simpler times such as those - he should have liked to consider Stella Feuerstein as one of the co-conspirators of his youth. Perhaps if he had known her then. Although, he knew that he was a gentleman and she a respectable lady and to behave in such a manner would be absolutely inconceivable under the circumstances. Still, he reasoned, as he held open an austere oak door for his lady companion to walk through, it would be a nice thought to keep and ponder every once in a while.

"How have you been enjoying your stay here at the Westmoreland?" Richard asked politely.

Stella shrugged her shoulders demurely as she said, "Well, enough, thank you. Oh, I am grateful, truly, but my search for an occupation is proving to be quite difficult."

Wringing her hands – gloveless, Richard noted – Stella looked to the floor as the two of them continued walking. "I want to work. Honest work. Not for Ms. May-Eileen or others like her. And I want to earn my keep," she said. "It has been hard finding an employer who will accept one of my ethnic and religious background."

Richard said, "You truly wish to work again? As I have said, if you ever require assistance..."

Stella shook her head. "No," she said. "I have undergone secretarial training back home in Poland and I believe that I can eventually find work as a typist. I know it will be difficult and the hours long, especially as I am not quite fluent in the language, but that is the life of the American, no?"

Richard couldn't help but agree.

"If this is what you wish, then so be it," Richard finally said after a pregnant pause.

Thus, the pair continued their stroll.

As he and Stella wound their way throughout the modestly opulent (if such a thing were to exist) hotel, Richard couldn't help but continue to watch the people around him. While every single man and women whom he laid eyes upon seemed incomparably dull and mundane – how many women in garnet-red wool walking ensembles, naturally suitable for both church services and romantic afternoon promenades, accompanied by their husbands or beaus could there be, after all? On the other hand, Richard remarked to himself as he looked appraisingly at Stella for one minute, Miss Feuerstein was modestly dressed, neither in the height of fashion nor the _mode_ of a matron outdated; she was clothed in a simple batiste waist, a light brown skirt featuring a Grecian motif, and a cream-colored shawl edged with torchon lace.

Stella seemed to have noticed Richard's preoccupation with her _habillement_ , for she smiled enigmatically and said, "I know I look different from when you first met me, Richard Grayson, but I must say that this is the first time a man has been captivated by seeing me in a state of dress, not undress!"

Richard Grayson had the good graces to avert his gaze, albeit all too late for societal standards, as he stammered out an excuse. However, Stella just laughed in that musical tone that Richard found himself suddenly wanting to hear more of as she stopped in front of a smaller, less conspicuous door than the ones in the main area of the hotel.

"…steals from the people, other peals from the steeple!" a familiar masculine voice said, although it was hard for Richard to discern the last few words this man on the other side of the door said as he had trailed off into hysterical laughter.

Silence came from the writing room, and then a low yet feminine voice replied, "Mr. Logan, if your wit, perhaps, grew to match the size of your ego, I might one day laugh at one of your jokes."

Richard and Stella paused outside of the room, unsure of whether or not they should proceed. As the conversation did not continue on past this point - Mr. Logan must've been nursing his pride - both Stella and Richard deemed it a suitable time for them to make their entrance.

"The reading room, sir," Stella announced, gesturing for Richard to enter.

"Thank you," Richard said, stepping inside, unable to be rid of the feeling that entering a reading room with a woman was somehow wrong. Stella followed and quietly shut the door behind her as she slid graciously into the nearest armchair.

While Richard's thoughts would normally have flitted first to the handsome furnishings of the simple writing room and the unassuming grace of its dark wood-paneled walls, his eyes came to rest on a female figure clad in blue, sitting in an armchair across the room. Richard briefly registered the familiar face of one Garfield Logan, but found that he would rather address that particular man at a later time.

"You!" Richard said as he walked over to this woman. "You're _The Raven."_

 _The Raven_ smiled softly to herself, giving Richard the feeling that she did not think so highly of his intellect.

"I am, Officer Grayson," she said, delicately replacing the satin ribbon in the novel she was reading, before holding out her hand for him to shake. "Rachel Roth, and I know you've already met my…associate, Garfield Logan. I apologize for the impropriety of meeting in this gentlemen's reading room. However, Mr. Logan insisted on meeting here as he's apparently always wished to see the inside of a 'fancy hotel' such as this."

Richard nodded, politely accepting Ms. Roth's handshake. He nearly shuddered as he felt how cold her unnaturally pale hands were. They were quite callused, too, around her fingernails.

"It is an honor to finally meet the woman behind the penname," Richard said, although he still could not quite gauge Ms. Roth's character, other than in regard to her profession, just from glancing at her.

"I find I am particularly fond of that _sobriquet_ ," Rachel said, "and of the work to which it alludes."

Well, this certainly was an interesting development, thought Richard to himself. Judging by the utilitarian nature of the woman's ensemble – a navy wool skirt nearly ten years out of style and a plaid basque of lighter blue, also several years past its prime – and the skirt's ragged hem, however well-mended, Ms. Roth seemed to belong to the working-class. Yet, she spoke as if she was well-educated. _What an oddity,_ he mused, suddenly an expert on women's fashions.

"A literary term, Ms. Roth," Richard said. "Curious for one of your economic background."

Here, Rachel nearly smiled. "I do not take lightly to any insults to those of my social class, Sergeant Grayson. You would do well to remember the other two in the room to whom you are speaking," she said, gesturing to both Stella and Mr. Logan. "However, if I must remind you, we are not here for mere pleasantries. You ordered us to meet here for a reason. Good news, I presume."

"Yes," Richard said. "And I suppose I must thank you for supplying that one-hundred-dollar amount for Ms. Feuerstein's cause at May-Eileen's. If you should wish it, I would pay you back that sum; I know that amount of money can be quite dear for a woman such as yourself."

Rachel shrugged, saying, "You insult my social class once more, Sergeant, but I digress. I used that money in good faith. It was not injurious to me to set it aside for such a purpose as I am quite a frugal person. I have had it saved up for quite a long time. It is of no trouble and I would never burden you with a request to pay me back. Such a request would belittle my help."

Richard knew when to accede. He was clearly ill-equipped for a battle of the wits with this Ms. Roth, if her slightly acerbic tone was anything to go off of.

He took a seat on one of the many armchairs in the room. "If the papers have been any indication," he said, "both men involved in forcing Ms. Feuerstein into the oldest profession, Messrs. Gordon and Sion, have been tried and found guilty for their crimes. If it weren't for Ms. Feuerstein's minority at the time of her arrival in America, I'm afraid that those two men would have gone free.

"I thought I would alert you all to the good news in person, seeing as you three were invaluable in helping me with this case," Richard concluded.

He saw Garfield brush some errant lint angrily off of his coat-sleeve.

"Is there any particular reason you appear indignant, Mr. Logan?" Richard asked.

Garfield took his time in response. He eventually said, "You know Victor was an awful great help with all this, too, right?"

Richard nodded hesitantly.

"Then why'd you tell us to meet you here?" Garfield said. "The porter told us he don't let Vic's kind into the hotel and so Vic had to find someplace to wait until we're done here!"

Tensions ran higher as Richard tried to offer up a paltry excuse as to why such a thing had slipped his mind and how he would ensure that it would never happen again, and as Stella muttered disappointedly under her breath in Yiddish.

"I apologize, Mr. Logan –"

"Cops like you are all the –"

"An absolute _sche–"_

Before a shouting match could occur, Rachel loudly cleared her throat, perhaps also in attempt to alert Stella of her near-usage of an impolite word.

Stella blushed gracefully and Rachel spoke.

"Might I suggest we meet in more neutral ground the next time, Sergeant Grayson?" Rachel said, her voice absolutely calm, next to no traces of emotion present on her face. "And to think we were to celebrate this joyous occasion; we found justice, after all."

Richard shrugged. "Only because of Stella's minority. Our law is still lacking," he said.

"But that is justice still, no?" Stella said. "I am free and they are not, correct?"

Nodding, Richard said, "It is justice in a way."

"A convoluted way," Rachel said dryly. "But it'll do."

Garfield, who had been silent in the past few moments, made his presence in the group known once more through the sudden noise of his empty stomach.

He grinned sheepishly as he said, "I ain't eaten much else b'sides coffee and bread today. D'you mind if I go meet Vic for some dinner?"

Standing up abruptly, he jammed his worn cap onto his head and threw on a coat that was several sizes too large for his stick-thin frame.

"I will join you," Stella said as she, too, stood up and donned her outerwear: a cloak and novelty black felt hat.

Normally, such a declaration would have been considered overtly forward, were it not for Garfield extending the proverbial olive branch by similarly inviting Richard along.

Richard appeared to be mulling this over.

"Come on, Sergeant!" Garfield said, any animosity from before forgotten over the prospect of a shared meal. "I'm absolutely starving."

Rachel readjusted her feather-adorned bonnet – her only contemporary fashion - as she said, "For once, I agree with Mr. Logan. Dinner sounds nice and I haven't eaten all day."

"There are several good establishments near this hotel that I can recommend," Richard said.

Garfield stared dully at the police sergeant as he said, "But what about Vic? He's not welcome in most of the places 'round here, remember?"

Richard had the good graces to look abashed at having forgotten his earlier misstep. "Well, I'm afraid I don't know of any places that will. Why don't you suggest one, Mr. Logan?" he said.

Garfield rolled his eyes slightly, but said anyway, "Signor Annella runs a swell place over on Broadway, near Stockton. Me and Vic often go there after work and he don't even need to sit in the kitchen or nothing!"

 _Broadway and Stockton_. Richard mulled that over to himself. But that was in the heart of Chinatown; not the most reputable district of the city by far.

"Very well," he said. "I can hire us a hackney carriage. We're too large for a hansom."

Rachel and Garfield shared a look before Garfield burst into loud laughter.

"A fancy cab in Chinatown?" Garfield said, incredulously. "D'you wanna get robbed or something? We can take the streetcar; it's only a dime for the two we'd need to take. You do know what a streetcar is, right?"

Richard bristled at this. Of course, he knew about San Francisco's trolleys; he had taken two just to get to this damn hotel!

"I was only suggesting a hired vehicle because it's more economical than each of us paying two trolleys' fares," he said, attempting to explain himself.

Rachel could see that Garfield was about to continue laughing, so she interrupted.

"Enough!" she said. "Officer Grayson, Mr. Logan, please cease your incessant bickering. Mr. Logan, of course Officer Grayson is acquainted with the city's transport system; he works for the police and therefore traverses it frequently. And Officer Grayson, please use more common sense in the future. While a hackney carriage would be more economical, it isn't necessarily more practical. We are a wild group as it is and undue attention in Chinatown is never the best course."

Both men felt their faces grow slightly warm as they found themselves at a loss for words.

However, Garfield soon broke the silence, as if suddenly remembering something.

"Hey, Rachel!" he said. "You just don't want to take the hackney because carriage rides make you sick."

Rachel glared at Garfield, who quickly lost all of his bravado. "What is your point, Mr. Logan?" she said. "We both prefer the streetcar, so you have your way. There is no need to bring my constitution into this."

"Sorry," Garfield said, seeming to shrink even further within his ill-fitting coat.

He grew slightly cheerier when the four of them exited the hotel and walked a few streets to where the Tenderloin neighborhood began. There, amidst the timber-frame houses and ever-open saloons, was Victor Stone, sitting on a bench outside of a druggist's.

"Mr. Stone," Richard said, offering his hand politely to the other man, "a pleasure to meet you again. I apologize for my earlier indiscretions. Perhaps we can meet closer to your jurisdiction in the near future."

Victor returned his handshake curtly and civilly, saying, "The same to you, Sergeant Grayson."

Reintroductions were over quickly and the five of them began their journey via streetcar to Signor Annella's Chinatown chop-house in relative silence.

Richard thought that the trolley ride itself would've followed a similar pattern of silence, seeing as the first thing Rachel did upon sitting down in the first trolley's car was to take a small novel out of her chatelaine bag and to begin reading. He noted the title of the book. "Sesame and Lilies." Common-sense reading for any girl over the age of fifteen and a standard fixture in girls' high schools. Curious considering that it was highly unlikely that Ms. Roth graduated from or even attended anything past grammar school.

At one point during the journey, Stella had reached into her own purse and had withdrawn a clipping from one of the day's papers. She handed it to Rachel.

"Here," she said. ' _Plain but Comfortable,_ ' it read. "I thought that you might wish to read this, if you haven't already, Rachel. It's an article on rational dress."

Rachel took the small fragment of newsprint and placed it in her purse. "Thank you," she said briefly.

After the five of them changed streetcars, Richard found himself chatting amicably with Ms. Feuerstein about sundry topics such as her recent embroidery project or recent goings-on in the precinct. In the background of their conversation, Richard and Stella could hear Garfield trying to engage Rachel in a similar conversation, although to a lesser degree of success. It would seem as if Ms. Roth had little to no patience at this time for Mr. Logan's jokes. And so, after a brief yet entirely hearty attempt at encouraging Ms. Roth in conversation, Garfield turned to Victor and soon found himself embroiled in some passionate yet trivial debate with his long-time friend.

Engaged in such a pleasant conversation with such a pleasant companion, Richard found the commute all too short. But, when Stella offered him her arm as they walked towards Broadway, Richard found he couldn't complain.

Signor Annella's Chinatown establishment sat on the corner of Broadway and Stockton Streets just across the way from some of Chinatown's more unpleasant locations; opium dens and two-bit bordellos should come to mind. The building's ragged and striped yellow awning didn't ease Richard's suspicion about the quality of this particular eating-place. He reminded himself to not order the hash here but any other dishes should be fine. After all, this establishment was still in operation so that had to say something as to the quality of the food; it wouldn't be the death of him, at the very least.

It was Garfield who ushered everyone inside and ordered for them in a rush of heavily-accented Italian. Both Richard and Rachel protested this forwardness but Garfield just grinned, putting on a not-so-convincing air of mystery as he said, "Prepare to be amazed by the specialty: spaghetti."

Richard stared blankly at the young man sitting across from him. " _Spag-hetti_?" he said, testing out the word. Richard had heard of the dish its _pasta_ -kind before – he'd even had macaroni timbales at a formal banquet once – but he'd never had a chance to try it.

Rachel flat-out refused. "No," she said, her voice leaving no room for Garfield's protestations.

"Please?" he said, in a voice that Richard could only describe as a whine. "Just a little taste? If you don't like it, I'm sure Vic'll eat it instead!"

Victor heartily agreed to this, for he had always felt that Signor Annella's portions ran a bit small.

Rachel rolled her eyes. "I've tried the dish before, Mr. Logan, but I digress," she said, although she gestured for a waiter to come over as she told him in a low voice – also in Italian, though not nearly as accented as Garfield's – what must've been her preferred order. The waiter nodded and continued on with his job.

Whatever Richard had been expecting when it came to this _spaghetti,_ the dish that was placed in front of him certainly wasn't it.

"Why did I get the idea that it would look like steak?" he said, trying to make a joke. He'd been feeling uncomfortable all day; out of place. Perhaps a bit of a laugh was in order.

However, Richard had never been one for comedy. Perhaps a bit of a laugh wasn't in order, he realized, as he picked up his fork and tried to figure out how to eat this _spaghetti._

Beside him, Stella wholeheartedly began eating the new dish, but as she had not yet mastered the delicate art of the fork-twirl, a portion of the spaghetti fell into her lap.

"It's alive!" she said, unsure of what to do with this lapful of pasta.

Rachel raised an eyebrow at both Stella and Richard as she said, "You wind the spaghetti around your fork, pressing it to the spoon."

With these instructions, Richard and Stella soon found that they could partake in this new dish smoothly and the meal continued.

True to her word, Rachel pushed her plate of spaghetti – Garfield had still ordered her a plate - over to Vic, only sipping from the coffee she, herself, had ordered.

Victor and Garfield quickly fell into their own conversation, Richard and Stella continued theirs, and Rachel once again read from "Sesame and Lilies".

However, at the end of the meal, Victor looked over at Richard as he said, "I read in the papers the results of the trial. So, this must be a celebratory dinner."

"Yes," Richard said. "Although the laws of this country didn't quite seem to bring justice to Ms. Feuerstein as I could've hoped.

Victor sat back in his chair, mulling this over. "For any further correspondence, Sergeant Grayson, you should know my address," he said, giving it to Richard. "Please make use of it."

Richard nodded. "Duly noted, Mr. Stone," he said.

"You know," Garfield said, tentatively, as he wiped some sauce from his face with the back of his hand, "I think we'd make a good team."

"For what?" Rachel said. "Vigilante justice? You do remember, Mr. Logan, that that is illegal."

This time, it was Garfield who rolled his eyes. "Of course, I remember," he said. "But think about how much you've done to help Sergeant Grayson out on his case, Rachel - Ms. Roth. Imagine what else we could do to help."

Feeling as if he had to be the voice of ultimate reason here, Richard said, "Mr. Logan, as much as I appreciate the offer, I'm afraid that none of you four would be welcome to the police force."

Garfield felt himself stand up angrily at this. "What are you talking about?" he said, in a voice too loud for a dinner-table. He felt Rachel's measuring hand placed on his forearm. "Just because Vic ain't white?"

Rachel yanked Garfield back into his seat as she gave him a warning look.

"That is one reason, yes, Mr. Logan," Richard said coolly. "They don't allow Negroes to join the police yet. I hope one day that will change. But think about the other three of you. None of you have high school educations. Ms. Feuerstein cannot speak English fluently and as well-educated as Ms. Roth sounds, it's clear from just looking at her that she's just another one of America's many factory girls. Even if they weren't women, they wouldn't have a job with the police department. That is just the reality of our society and we have to live with it."

Garfield opened his mouth; he clearly had a few more thoughts to voice, but Victor interrupted him.

"Calm down, Garfield," Victor said. "While Sergeant Grayson should learn to be more tactful, what he said is true. We can't become policemen, and in all honesty, I don't want to be one. But what we can do is use the skills we have to help the good Sergeant. Anonymous tips aren't illegal, right? And Ms. Roth here has clearly been doing so in the past."

Garfield shrugged. "I s'ppose so," he said, a bit morosely. However, after thinking to himself for a few moments, his face lit up with a grin. "You were in the army, right, Vic?" he asked his companion, who nodded. "And Ms. Feuerstein speaks several languages. Sergeant Grayson, for obvious reasons. But what about Rachel?"

All eyes turned towards Ms. Roth who thought for a moment before saying cautiously, "I know the city and its underworld like the back of my hand."

"See?" Garfield said. He paused. "Now, what about me? I'm scrawny and can fit into small places. I don't know if that's helpful, but I can also hear real good. I mean, I'm great at eavesdropping."

"Most would hesitate to call that a talent, Mr. Logan," Rachel said, "but seeing as how it was your eavesdropping that began our acquaintance, I suppose it can't be all that useless."

At this pseudo-admission, Richard eyed Ms. Roth curiously but he found that her facial expression gave nothing away. A talent in its own, he supposed.

"Still," Rachel said, voicing her reservations, "there have been three verbal fights that have broken out between us since we've gathered today. Maybe we aren't suited to be a team, as you said."

Victor and Garfield shrugged this off as Richard said, "I would rather learn from those three incidents, Ms. Roth. We did all help to solve a crime and our capabilities are complimentary. Now that we have furthered our acquaintances, I would dare to say that our squabbles will grow pettier in nature in the near future."

Stella spoke up. "Oh, yes!" she said. "It will be like our group is a family."

That seemed to serve as finalization on the matter. A team they would be.

"So," Garfield said, crossing his arms and surveying this ragtag bunch before him, "will our non-vigilante group have a name?"

Rachel was the next one to speak

"' _Look in their hearts,/ hating each other ; hating most the power/ that fetters them to hatred, but whose fear/ forces their sick lives in one common mould,/ and makes one bed suit all,_ '" Rachel said. An unfamiliar poetry recitation to all but her. "' _For peace will surely join both hearts and hands/ until the bright belt stretches round the world/ thick strewn with pearls of love and charity._ '"

She looked at the others at the table around her before nonchalantly saying, "A bit out of order and not the best poem ever to be published, but it suits. 'The Titans of To-Day' by C. H. Williams."

"That's it!" came a cry from the table; Garfield had stood up once more, this time with joy and not anger. "We'll be 'The Titans'!"

Rachel sighed and muttered to herself, "And now we lie in wait for our downfall at the hands of Zeus."

Garfield, as it has already been established, has better hearing than most. So, it should be quite obvious that he heard this little aside of Ms. Roth. His triumphant grin faltered slightly as he spoke these words next: "What d'you mean? It's a perfectly good name!"

Clearly, our Mr. Logan was not well-versed in mythology, but he still spoke next with great enthusiasm.

"So," he said, "after dinner, how about we see the cyclorama? There ain't no vaudeville shows on tonight and it's the sage of Paris or something and I hear there're swell lights and real cannons!"

Victor stifled a snort of laughter as Garfield's error of diction was corrected immediately by Rachel.

"He meant to say 'siege'," she said. "The cyclorama of the Siege of Paris. And it depends on how much the admission price is and when the next show-time is."

Garfield readily supplied the information that, as they had dined relatively early, there would be a little over an hour until the next showing at half past eight o'clock and that tickets were a half-dollar each.

This was deemed acceptable to the group, as the lure of a full military band and real, live cannons made the extra twenty-five cents seem to be worth it.

Stella turned to Richard, her eyes brimming with unspent emotion, her hands clasped to her bosom.

"Please, Richard," she said, paying no heed to her use of his Christian name despite the other three being there, "I would absolutely love to go."

"All right," Richard said, to the whoops of Garfield and Victor and the slight groan of displeasure from Rachel. "What's the harm in it?"

The five of them soon paid the bill – there had been one more argument over who was going to foot it; Stella won - and made their way to Mason and Eddy Streets long after the sun had set.

Thus, dear reader, the Titans were born; not of Mother Earth's womb but of the well-worn interior of a Chinatown restaurant.


	6. Icarus Warned

**This is an edited chapter with a change in setting. Instead of 1898 New York City, this is 1891 San Francisco. PM me if you've read the original** **(Part I, Book II, Chapter I)** **and only want a summary of the changes I've made so that you don't have to reread.**

 **oOo**

Time passed for the _Titans._ One month changed to another and they all found it increasingly difficult to meet up as a complete group. And there wasn't much crime to be solved at all. At least, not anything above the level of a petty adolescent thief. Garfield Logan had been an invaluable asset on that one. As a former guttersnipe himself. Garfield had no trouble convincing the bootblack-turned-burglar that it was all the better to confess to the police versus to try and evade them.

While Garfield found himself out of a job once more and Victor had his hours reduced, leisure time was not to be found amongst our famous five. They had yet to find an appropriate meeting place that was liberal enough to let all five members in and yet was secretive enough that they could conduct their business in peace.

For the most part, the _Titans_ lay dormant inside Gaea's bosom, watching, working, and waiting for something to come their way.

 **oOo**

Despite it being quite late in the evening with San Francisco's workingmen all returning home after a long day of labor, Chinatown was alive with music, drunks, and the occasional middle-class spectator. Victor Stone often regretted choosing to live so close to this infamous district, as he preferred his nights relatively peaceful. Still, the practical side of him would say, rent was affordable and he was welcome here.

Checking his timepiece, Victor noted that it was nearly half-past nine; he planned on going straight to bed, seeing as he'd been up since before five. Sometimes, he'd visit some neighbors in the same building or he'd share a cup of coffee with the matriarch of the family he boarded with, but tonight, Victor was absolutely dead-tired.

However, all plans of his to go straight to bed were immediately quashed when he turned the corner onto Washington Street and saw a handful of cops and doctors in front of that familiar clapboard tenement. In the crowd of people swarming outside of the building, Victor spotted a familiar face.

"O'Leary!" he called, thus earning that man's attention.

Michael O'Leary, another of 1021 Washington Street's lodgers, came running over.

"What's happened?" Victor said.

At that moment, two officers carried a blanket-covered stretcher down the house's steps and into a waiting carriage. Neither Victor nor Michael were unfamiliar with what was under that blanket.

So, Victor amended his question.

"Who is that?" he said, the cold and twisting feeling of dread taking root in his stomach.

Michael O'Leary gestured to a sobbing mother and her two young sons standing in the center of it all. "The Shannon family," he said. "Their daughter, Nellie."

"Do they know how?" Victor said. "But why is everyone standing outside?"

Michael smiled sorrowfully at this. "I don't know how, only that it was a suicide. But we're all out here because of Mrs. Shannon's wails from earlier, when she first found her daughter. Me and some of the others found it was more quiet out on the streets."

The two men spared a glance over their shoulders to look at the hustle and bustle of Chinatown. If that was considered quiet by comparison, then Mrs. Shannon must've been gifted with a strong set of lungs.

Victor nodded his head slightly at Michael as he said, "Thanks, Mike. You know, I think I'll have a few words with Mrs. Shannon." He got a nod in response that he barely saw as he continued his way through the crowd to a red-eyed Mrs. Shannon.

"Ma'am," Victor said, taking off his hat and holding it in his hands, "I'm very sorry to hear about Nellie. She was a sweet girl." Indeed, Victor had sometimes helped Nellie with her sums and her spelling practice for school. It had been a few years since that, though, as like America's other working girls, Nellie left school past the eighth grade in order to earn her keep.

Mrs. Shannon nodded as she wiped away more tears with the corner of her red lace shawl. "Thank you, Mr. Stone," she said, before she began crying harder.

No matter how he thought about phrasing his next words, Victor knew that he would sound like a prying gossip. But, he had a feeling he could help with this situation.

"May I ask what happened?" he said.

Mrs. Shannon sniffled and looked at Victor's feet when she replied, "I shouldn't say. My Nellie was a good girl."

Victor's heart sank at this. He'd heard similar words before from similarly tearful mothers in denial about the changing characters of their daughters.

"And she was, Mrs. Shannon," he said, remembering how he'd often see Nellie Shannon coming home after work, sometimes accompanied by a lithe young man. "She was a good girl. One of the brightest I've ever met."

"She didn't do nothing wrong," Mrs. Shannon said. "Nellie just wanted to look nice for that beau of hers; they were going to go to a dance hall tomorrow evening."

Victor mulled this information over. Eventually, he said, "She was happy? Up until tonight/"

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Shannon said. "But I wish she wouldn't have done it! This morning, as she was brushing her hair, she wouldn't stop singing! My Nellie never used to sing."

 _Done what?_ Victor thought for a few moments before he realized what Mrs. Shannon had let slip. The police thought, certainly, that Nellie Shannon had done this to herself. To Victor, however, that seemed somewhat suspicious.

"Thank you for your concern, Mr. Stone," Mrs. Shannon said eventually, her face weary and gaunt, "but my sons are very tired and must prepare for bed."

Victor acquiesced, sighing inwardly. While he did feel guilty for prying, he couldn't help but notice the bottle Mrs. Shannon was holding, its paste-board label surprisingly bare. All that was written on it in a spidery red script was "Lyle and Blackburn's Orange Wine Stomach Bitters."

Nellie Shannon might've been a good girl but she was also a foolish one.

His mind racing, Victor said his goodbyes to Mrs. Shannon and turned around as he began walking back towards the hustle and bustle of Chinatown. He knew the bordello – nice despite its surroundings - on the corner had a telephone for the general public to use. He just hoped that it wasn't too late in the evening.

Luckily, Victor was able to make his call, although he did have to offer the madam two bits for its use. He told the operator the requested number and waited for the connection to be put through.

"Hello?" came a terse voice from the other end of the line. As it was so late at night, any sweet-sounding secretaries must've already gone home. What a shame.

"Hello," Victor said, praying that he had played his cards right. "Is this the workplace of Officer Richard Grayson? I'd like to speak with him, if he's available."

"Speaking."

Of course, Richard Grayson would still be in his office so late at night, Victor thought. He seemed the type.

"Officer," Victor said, "it's Mr. Stone. There's been a death at my place of residence and something seems strange about it all. Please look up and find me the manufacturers of Lyle and Blackburn's Orange Wine Stomach Bitters. That's all."

"I will do so," Officer Grayson said. "Expect a telegram within the week."

Victor sighed in relief at this. "Thank you, Officer," he said. "Goodbye."

The other end of the line went dead.

 **oOo**

It was four days later that Victor received a telegram from Old City Hall just before he was set to go to church. He hadn't thought far ahead enough to expect any specific response, but nevertheless, his heart sank as he read it.

"Company not registered; doesn't exist. – RG."

Sighing, Victor donned his best hat and prepared himself for the walk to Powell Street. At least he'd have some time to think during the church service.

 **oOo**

The service ran shorter than usual and before noon, Victor found himself walking back to Washington Street. Instead of returning straight home after what would be an incredibly short journey, he continued walking until he stood in front of a particular green-clad storefront.

One of the more prominent druggists in this neighborhood was that of Van der Leith's at the corner of Powell and Broadway, and without hesitation, Victor stepped inside. It looked exactly as a normal drugstore would, right down to the bored clerk and the plethora of green and brown glass bottles behind him.

"May I help you?" the clerk asked.

Victor stepped up to the counter, saying, "I'd like to buy some bitters, please. There's one particular kind I want but I can't recall the brand. Perhaps if I see a few of the bottles?"

The clerk nodded and shortly deposited a number of bottles on the countertop between him and Victor.

Victor looked at each one with more attention than was probably necessary – he did have to pretend to buy one, after all – but none of them had that spidery red script that he remembered from Nellie Shannon's bottle.

He looked at the clerk and shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't recognize any of these. Do you have any other brands?"

The clerk looked around the store before he reached underneath the counter to withdraw one more bottle.

"Here," the clerk said, placing the bottle on the countertop.

"That's the one!" Victor said.

The clerk handed him the bottle and said, "It's best if we don't display this one like the others. Story goes that this is what that Shannon girl had before she died and we don't want to upset anyone. Personally, I've tried these bitters. Not that great, if you ask me. But if you really want them…"

Victor nodded along with this story. He swallowed away the bitter taste in his throat as he said, "Well, I've never had a problem with it! You know, bitters like this one have worked so well for me that I was thinking of writing the man behind it all. Do you know his name and address by any chance? I figured he's a small manufacturer – probably local, right?"

"Sure," the clerk said, as he consulted one of his ledgers, before writing something on a slip of paper that he then handed to Victor. "And you're right about him being local. He's here in this city. His name is Arthur Light, M.D. at - O'Farrell."

"Thanks," Victor said, as he pulled out his change-purse. "How much?"

At the clerk's response, Victor handed his half-dollar over. _Half a day's wages gone, but it was for a good cause,_ he supposed. _As long as he was right about this hunch._ He grabbed the bottle and left the store.

 **oOo**

The next Thursday evening, closer to morning than to supper-time, the group known as "The Titans" had gathered in an unused basement that Garfield had stumbled across previously. Sitting in a circle, they looked quite the formidable gang. The old oil lantern's sputtering and flickering certainly didn't detract from that effect but at least they could all see.

Victor placed the still-unopened bottle of bitters on the floor between them.

"Good work, Mr. Stone," Richard said. "With Doctor Light's address and the contents of this bottle, we should find this mystery relatively easy to solve. Although, this is quite an unorthodox meeting-time."

Shrugging his shoulders by way of an apology, Victor said, "We are all workingmen and Ms. Feuerstein works on Sundays while the rest of us don't. If you want, we can meet again for supper Saturday night. Say eight o'clock at Signor Annella's?"

The other four muttered their agreement before Victor continued.

"If we can open this bottle," he said, "I can probably identify what's inside. I've spent a lot of my time in the hospital."

Richard gestured for him to do so.

Victor uncorked the bottle and inhaled tentatively. At first, the scent of oranges and something earthier overwhelmed him, both of which should've been present in any orange bitters. But, as he inhaled again, he noted sweet spices, something fouler, and the unmistakable odor of strong spirits.

"Laudanum," he said. "This seems to be laudanum mixed with a tonic."

The group was silent for a moment before Rachel spoke.

"If a girl had hardly touched laudanum before," Rachel said, "and if she thought orange bitters would aid her physical beauty, thus drinking a great quantity, it is no wonder it killed her."

"But," Stella said, her voice hesitant, "why would somebody do something as horrible as this?"

"Adulterating medicines is common," Richard said. "It's more cost-efficient to fill a bottle with ineffective ingredients and sell many through great claims than it is to operate honestly. Sometimes, profit is all that matters."

Stella sat back in her chair, unsure of what to say next.

Garfield, who'd previously been silent up until now, said, "But you have Doctor Light's address, right? Well, let's go there now and investigate, or something!"

Finding no fault in this, the other four agreed and began the walk down to O'Farrell Street near the center of town.

It was over an hour later when they arrived across the street from a tall and highly-illuminated building. The buildings all around them seemed to have closed for the night. After all, it was long past midnight.

Curious that the address seemed to be in the heart of the theatre district. Curious indeed.

"The Alcazar Theatre?" Garfield said. "This is - O'Farrell Street where Doctor Arthur Light's supposed to be?"

"Well," Rachel said, "it's clear there is no doctor here. No conman would be stupid enough to actually operate out of the address he gave, seeing as it's a theatre."

It was at that moment, fortuitously, that a lanky bearded man exited the theatre, carrying a red carpetbag. He took a swig from the bottle he was holding, but he must've choked, for he began coughing so hard that he dropped the carpetbag to the ground. It opened upon impact and a number of similar bottles rolled out onto the sidewalk.

"I stand corrected," Rachel said. " _This_ conman is stupid enough."

"Sergeant Grayson," Stella said, grasping Richard's coat sleeve, "what should we do?"

Richard thought for a moment before he gestured to Garfield. "You," he said. "Can you bring us his carpetbag?"

Garfield nodded as he crept closer to the theatre, trying to evade Doctor Light's notice. He was only partially successful. While he was able to gather the stray bottles into the carpetbag, he soon found himself blinded temporarily as Doctor Light landed a blow to his eye. He'd have a decent shiner within a few hours. A knock to his jaw a few seconds later and Garfield Logan dropped to the ground, dazed.

Victor and Richard were quick to accost Doctor Light, pinning him down as Stella grabbed the carpetbag and led Garfield away from the front of the theatre. None of them noticed that Rachel was no longer standing on the opposite side of the street. In fact, she was nowhere to be seen at all.

For a man of his stature, Doctor Light was surprisingly strong as he threw both Victor and Richard off of him, retreating towards the entrance to the Alcazar Theatre. Victor landed on his right shoulder, feeling what would certainly become painful purple bruises in the days to come. Richard was a little luckier as his fall was cushioned by a pile of receipts and playbills, so he was quickly to stand on his feet once more. He scanned the area around him, noting that Stella and Mr. Logan were out of sight – hopefully they'd gone to a safer place where perhaps Mr. Logan's head could be examined. Hopefully Doctor Light hadn't caused too much damage.

"You know," Victor said, breathing heavily from where he'd fallen, "I don't believe that man's a real doctor."

Richard chuckled and would've replied except that Doctor Light threw something at him – a spare bottle - that clipped his shoulder. He winced, feeling around his shoulder to check for any serious damage. Luckily, he'd only come away with a bruise or two.

"I think I will be on my way, gentleman," said Doctor Light, "if you don't mind?"

Richard was about to make another attempt to wrestle Doctor Light to the ground when he heard a cold voice coming from the entrance of the theatre.

"I mind."

It was Rachel.

Doctor Light laughed loudly. "Harsh words from a little girl like you," he said, turning around to face Rachel. He took a step towards her, ready to incapacitate her much like he'd done with her other friends but her next words stopped him momentarily.

"Don't come any closer," she said.

After regaining his composure, Arthur Light paid this warning no mind and cornered the young woman by the theater's door. He laughed as if this were just a grand old game and placed his hands on either side of Rachel's head, effectively trapping her between him and the edifice's wall.

Doctor Light was about to make some lecherous comment, gazing at the slight figure of the woman in front of him, when he found himself suddenly crumpled on the ground, his jaw aching awfully.

Rachel had knocked the top of her head against Doctor Light's chin, giving her a chance to escape.

"I said, don't come any closer!" she seethed, moving to stand over Doctor Light's prone form.

She let out a cry in rage and lifted up her boot, its wooden Cuban heel poised above Doctor Light's nose, ready to smash it in.

Just as Rachel was about to bring her foot down and further incapacitate Doctor Light, Richard ran over and tackled Rachel to the ground.

"Ms. Roth!" the sergeant shouted as he did so. "Taking out your anger on this fraudulent doctor isn't worth up to a fourteen-year sentence. He's a petty criminal and nothing more."

Rachel snarled at Doctor Light, who was still cowering where he had fallen. The man shrunk back.

Richard sighed as he helped Rachel to her feet, motioning for Victor to come over and keep ahold of her. The sergeant then crouched over Doctor Light's trembling body.

"I'm fairly certain you know you've lost, Mr. Light," Richard said. "Will you come with me to Old City Hall?"

A few desperate cries left Doctor Light's throat before he was able to say, "Yes! Yes! I surrender. Please, I surrender! I'll tell them about the drugs! Just keep that crazed she-devil away from me."

As Richard brought Doctor Light to his feet and handcuffed him, feeling quite grateful that he had remembered to carry a pair of the metal device in his greatcoat pocket, Stella and Garfield made their return.

"We called the police," Garfield said, gesturing to a building across the way, "over there. They let us use their telephone. The cops should be here in around ten minutes."

Garfield looked at the scene around him.

"What happened here?" he said. He looked at Rachel, who had blanched when Richard had alerted her as to the potential consequences of her actions. "Rachel? What did you do?"

"I-" Rachel began to say, but she found that she couldn't get the right words out. She couldn't get any words out in her shocked state.

Richard talked over her, perhaps not even realizing that she had been about to speak. "All right," he said. "I'll accompany Mr. Light until the police arrive. Until then, Mr. Logan, would you mind escorting Ms. Feuerstein home? And Mr. Stone, if you could do the same for Ms. Roth?"

Garfield nodded, looking away from Rachel as he said, "Sure thing, Serg."

He and Stella were about to make their way to Sutter Street to Stella's residence when Victor said, "Hold on. Where did Ms. Roth go?"

The present _Titans_ looked around them – Garfield cursed himself for taking his eyes off of the other girl for that crucial moment. It would seem as if Rachel Roth had disappeared into the night.

Richard frowned as he said, "We've arranged a meeting with all five of us. It would be unlike Ms. Roth to not honor a commitment such as that."

This didn't quite sit right with Victor but he nodded along anyways as Stella said, "I am the most sure that Rachel will meet with us at Signor Annella's this Saturday for a communal meal. She is our friend, no?"

The other three shrugged. It still left a sour taste in Victor's mouth but he had to agree with them. If Rachel didn't want to be found, there was nothing the rest of them could do to figure out the situation before Saturday evening.

 **oOo**

That particular evening came all too soon as our ragtag group found themselves gathered around a table in Signor Annella's restaurant. While there were five plates laid out, there were only four people seated.

Rachel still hadn't arrived. Privately, the other four wondered if she ever would.

Despite this absence, Richard laid out a dainty card in the center of the table, intent on making something of this pitiful gathering.

"I've received an invitation to Miss Katherine Walker's debutante ball this next Sunday – not tomorrow but the one after- as, in case you have all forgotten, I am a member of society," he said.

An unvoiced "So?" echoed around the table, so Richard cleared his throat and elaborated.

"Her father, Mr. Walker, perhaps has ties to certain unsavory characters," he said. "With so many wealthy men and women at a ball such as that, I wouldn't be surprised if something were to happen. Mr. Walker himself has never been convicted of a crime but I've always been suspicious of that man. Especially the adolescent that often hangs around him like a vulture. Frank Something-Or-Other."

Stella felt her excitement growing, hardly paying any heed to the mentions of Mr. Walker's suspicious character. "Oh, I'd love to go to a ball," she said, looking directly at Richard. "It is customary for young men to be accompanied to such social functions, is it not?"

Richard's cheeks grew warm but Stella instead continued her talk of romantic fantasy.

She dreamily said, "But I would so love to go to a ball! To dance and to wear a fine gown! Oh, it would be absolutely marvelous. And you could accompany me, Sergeant Grayson!"

From across the table, Victor and Garfield were grinning.

"Fine," Richard said. He glared briefly at Victor and Garfield but he knew to let them have their enjoyment at his expense. There was little he could do to stop them. "But, I do wonder where Ms. Roth is. Supper is nearly over and she still hasn't arrived."

Stella previous excitement over her invitation – of sorts – to the ball faded to concern. "Yes," she said. "I do hope Rachel is all right."

Garfield mumbled something under his breath.

"What was that?" Victor said, elbowing his friend in the side a bit harder than perhaps he had intended.

"I said, I think I know where she is," Garfield said, his voice much clearer than before. He rubbed his side angrily. Now, on top of the black eye he was still sporting, he'd have a couple of bruised ribs.

"And where is that?" Richard asked. "Why didn't you tell us before the meal began?

Garfield shrank in his seat as he said, "I shouldn't say. Besides, I was distracted. I'm plain starved and I like the food here, so sorry I was a little busy."

Richard felt his eye twitch, his patience growing thin. "And why not?" he said. "Why shouldn't you say?"

Laughing nervously, Garfield gestured towards Stella and said, "I shouldn't talk about such places in front of a lady like Ms. Feuerstein. Besides, Rachel'd be upset something awful if I told everyone. Look, how about, after this, I find her on my own?"

"No," Richard said as he shook his head. "Ms. Roth had a reason not to attend supper with us tonight. Perhaps it's best if you search for her tomorrow or perhaps next week-end to give her some time alone."

Garfield grumbled to himself but ultimately agreed, adding, "I s'ppose Vic can come with me, since you two will be off tripping the light fantastic. Neither of us have much planned after church, anyhow."

Victor added his two cents to the conversation, saying, "Perhaps next Sunday works best. From what I know, in these situations, it's best to give the other person some time. It's too soon if the two of us go searching for tomorrow. I don't think there's any real urgency in it; it's not as if Ms. Roth is in trouble with the law or anything. If she was, she'd contact us or you, Sergeant Grayson."

Silence fell upon the group as Richard thought through this.

"You make an excellent point, Mr. Stone," he said. "I'll let you know if I receive any word from Ms. Roth."

Their meal was over very quickly after that. Richard insisted on paying for everyone's dish, including the untouched plate that would've been meant for Rachel. He normally spent more than that on just one supper for himself most nights, anyway.

Together with Stella, Richard began to walk away from Chinatown and towards the nearest streetcar stop so as to escort her home to the Westmoreland Hotel.

Back at the restaurant, Victor watched the two of them go.

"So," he said, looking at Garfield, who was still nursing his aching side, "how come you didn't want to tell Sergeant Grayson that you met Ms. Roth at a brothel?"

A yelp of pain sounded throughout the street – Garfield was simply returning the favor of a few bruised ribs.


	7. A Trip to Chinatown

**This is an edited chapter with a change in setting. Instead of 1898 New York City, this is 1891 San Francisco. PM me if you've read the original** **(Part I, Book II, Chapter II)** **and only want a summary of the changes I've made so that you don't have to reread.**

 **oOo**

Victor rubbed his side – now it hurt something awful.

"Why'd you have to go and say it like that?" Garfield said.

"I know, I know, she's not one of the girls or anything" Victor said, placating. He paused, thinking for a moment. "But what do you suppose she was doing there in the first place? At Mrs. Edgar's establishment? It ain't like you could afford any of the girls at May-Eileen's, anyhow."

Garfield waved him off as he said, "How should I know? All I know is that while I was there, I overheard her talking to one of the other girls – Elsie, most likely – about any of the illegal dealings that happen in bordellos. I s'ppose she had been trying to find any other connections to Karolina – Stella, I mean - by going around all the Chinatown boarding-houses when I offered my help in her 'investigation.' Before I knew it, you and I were working for Mr. Gordon. You know the rest."

Victor shook his head, saying, "Oh boy, do I."

But did Victor Stone regret where that had led him, dear reader? To join the Titans? He couldn't say that he did.

"So," Garfield said, "I guess we should begin at Mrs. Edgar's, to look for Rachel. I mean, she seemed sort of friendly with Elsie. Besides, it ain't like either of us knows where she lives, and if we can't find her there, where else would we look?"

"Do any of us know any places she might frequent?" Victor asked. "She's always reading something. Maybe a library or a bookshop."

Groaning, Garfield threw his arms up in exasperation. "There are thousands of those places in the city," he said. "She could be anywhere!"

"And it's not like you'd read enough to know where to find books, anyway," Victor said, under his breath.

Garfield glared at him, until Victor raised his arms in a placating gesture.

Garfield digressed, saying, "Fine, that's true. But if she ain't at Mrs. Edgar's or if Mrs. Edgar ain't seen her all week, where d'you suppose we go?"

Both men were silent for a few moments as they mentally went through a list of where Rachel could be. It wasn't a very long list, seeing as they knew practically next to nothing about her.

"Well," Victor said, "the only place where we know she's been before – alone – is the police station. I doubt she'd go there, though. I reckon we should just head over to Mrs. Edgar's and go from there."

"Yeah, I s'ppose we can ask someone if they know where she could be," Garfield said. "So, should we do all that next Saturday morning?"

Victor nodded, saying, "Sure. It'll give Ms. Roth some time to talk to Sergeant Grayson if need be."

"Swell," Garfield said, as he bid Victor farewell, about to head for the nearest streetcar stop. In a sudden theatrical flair, most likely using vocabulary gleaned from some dime novel, he said, "Our search for Rachel, ever the illusive dame, will commence in a fortnight!"

Rolling his eyes and choosing to ignore Garfield's diction errors – _illusive_ instead of _elusive_ and _fortnight_ instead of _sennight_ or even just _a week_ – Victor said, with a wry grin, "You know, if you keep calling Ms. Roth by her first name in public, people will begin to suspect something."

"There ain't anything to suspect!" Garfield said, defensively, silently vowing to himself to never, for the rest of his life on this good, green Earth, ever have such a dramatic fit again. "It's just a habit. I'll try to stop, honest."

As he slowly began to walk back towards his apartment over on Washington Street, Victor couldn't help but catch a slight strain of Garfield's muttering.

"Ms. Roth. _Ms. Roth._ Her name is _Ms. Roth,_ you hear?"

Victor's wry grin turned into an entire smile as he couldn't help but laugh at his friend's expense.

 **oOo**

Barely past nine o'clock in the morning the next Saturday, Garfield and Victor arrived at Mrs. Edgar's Chinatown bordello. As was to be expected for a brothel on a week-end, it wasn't quite rush hour, so to speak.

Garfield adjusted his waistcoat and hat before saying to Victor, "Listen, they know me in there, so I'll just go in, ask about Ms. Roth, and be right out. Shouldn't take more than five minutes, all right?"

It was a known fact that Mrs. Edgar's, along with a number of other brothels in Chinatown, only catered to a specific _type_ of clientele. Not that Victor minded, in this instance. He was never one for such transactions and, despite nearing thirty years of age, he held firmly onto the schoolgirl's notion that there was one true girl out there for him somewhere (Garfield would often make fun of him for this, but Victor knew to always remain strong in his convictions.)

Victor gestured for Garfield to open the door. "Go ahead," he said.

No matter how many times Garfield visited this particular second-class boarding house or any others of a similar nature, the first breath of the perfume, cigarette smoke, and something headier always made him sneeze. Today was no different and as he walked into the parlor, he barely took out his quite-dirty and in-desperate-need-of-a-wash handkerchief in time.

He sneezed loudly before uttering a feeble, "Good morning," to the handful of women scattered around the room

"Mr. Logan!" Mrs. Edgar called, clearly recognizing one of her regulars. She bustled over to him, her silk dressing gown trailing along the carpet and her face far too painted both for one of her age and for this hour in the morning.

"Sorry, ma'am," Garfield said, taking off his hat and holding it in his hands. He didn't plan on staying here long enough to need the hat-rack. "I'm here on strict business only. D'you know where someone named Elsie is? I just need to talk to her real quick about a, uh, mutual acquaintance."

Mrs. Edgar gestured to a girl sitting in the corner of the salon, a cigarette between her made-up lips. Garfield was quick to approach her.

The girl took a drag from her cigarette before taking a look at Garfield, clearly sizing him up. He must've passed whatever inspection she'd given him, for she sat back, letting him speak first.

"You smoke!" Garfield blurted out. While Mr. Logan had had a few bright moments in his lifetime, this was most certainly not one of them.

Elsie smiled mockingly at him. "Only when I'm bored," she said. "But what are you here for? It's a bit early but if you want it, that'll be fifty cents."

"What? No!" Garfield said, with a shame that he hadn't felt in a place like this since he'd first visited several years ago. "That ain't why I'm here. I just… You and Ms. Rachel Roth are friends, right?"

"Of sorts," Elsie said. She extinguished her cigarette in a nearby cut-crystal ashtray. "But I don't talk about my friends to any old client, you hear?"

"Well, I was wondering if you could tell me where to find her," Garfield said, before realizing that he most likely needed to explain a bit more. "Me and Ms. Roth are friends of sorts, too and she never gave me her address or anything and she didn't show up for supper with the rest of us the other day so I – we – was trying to find her and I remembered she was talking to you once so here we are." He finished this off with a nervous laugh.

 _What an eloquent speech, truly,_ Elsie remarked to herself. Surprising that Rachel Roth would consider this man a friend.

"Why should I help you?" Elsie said, more so out of good intentions towards Ms. Roth than of delight in seeing this man in front of her squirm uncomfortably.

"Listen," Garfield said, drawing up a chair and sitting himself beside Elsie. "I know it don't seem like it, but I consider Rach- Ms. Roth a friend and I'm concerned about her wellbeing. I just want to see if she's O.K., you hear?"

Garfield's little slip didn't go unnoticed and, in fact, was the reason that Elsie soon stood up and excused herself.

"While I don't know where Rachel is, but I do have something of hers to give to you," she said as she began walking up the stairs to what was presumably her room.

She returned shortly, holding a small red and green-covered book that looked a little worse for wear. "Here," she said, handing it to Garfield. "I don't know if this will help you but it's all that I have. Rachel is a private person and not even I know that much of her character."

"Thanks," Garfield said. While Garfield was no book expert, this one looked to be at least four decades old. What would Rachel want with a dusty old book like that? He opened it to the title page.

"'An English and Cantonese pocket-dictionary,'" he said, reading the title. Odd. He looked back at Elsie, about to thank her once again, but she'd already returned to her seat, smoking another cigarette and lost in thought.

Garfield was quick to put on his hat once again as he gave his regards to Mrs. Edgar and stepped outside into the sunshine.

Victor, who'd been waiting by the nearest store-front, walked up to him. "What took you so long?" he asked Garfield. "Did you get side-tracked or something?"

"What? No," Garfield said as he shook his head, brushing off his friend's insinuations. "I'd be in there longer if that were the case."

Victor rolled his eyes.

"Take a look at this," Garfield said, handing the small book he'd brought out with him to Victor. "What d'you think she'd want with something like this?"

Victor took the book and opened it to the front end-page. Written in the upper left-hand corner was the address for a bookshop only a few blocks away.

"I don't know," he said, handing the book back to Garfield. "There's an address for a nearby bookshop on the inside; we should probably check there for Ms. Roth next."

"Yeah," Garfield said. "it ain't like we know of anywhere else she'd be."

 **oOo**

It was not ten minutes later when Victor and Garfield found themselves outside of what must have been the smallest storefront in San Francisco.

"Hey," Garfield said, "you think this is the place? I don't see a sign or anything."

The two of them looked at the piles of books in the shop's window.

"Here's a bookstore," Victor said wryly, "in Chinatown, at the address written inside the book. I think we're at the right place."

Garfield rolled his eyes as he and Victor stepped inside the store, a tinny bell above the door ringing as they did so.

The bookstore, despite how absolutely crowded it was with books, lacked any other patrons. Perhaps this was because most other working-men in San Francisco were still at their jobs, but perhaps not. Amongst all of the stacks of books and pamphlets was squeezed an old desk and mismatched chair. Sitting on that chair, as was to be expected, was presumably the shopkeeper.

Victor cleared his throat, catching the attention of the middle-aged shopkeeper. The proprietor of this shop finished his notetaking, taking great care to blot the ink and close the ledger before he stood to greet his two customers. Whether or not he was surprised at the sight of Victor and Garfield, we can only hypothesize, for he quickly assumed a pleasant and cheerful countenance that all good shop-owners have.

"Can I help you?" he said, sizing up the two men standing among the towering bookcases. It was implicitly understood that he was also asking, _Are you sure you two are in the_ right _bookstore?_ for neither Garfield nor Victor looked as if they were capable of reading any of the books around them.

Garfield felt Victor looking at him imploringly; with a sigh, he withdrew the dictionary from his trouser pocket, handing it to the shopkeeper.

"Do you, by any chance, remember who you sold this book to?" Garfield said.

The shopkeeper took the book and opened it up to the frontispiece. After verifying that the book had, at some point, originated from his shop, he flipped through a few more pages. In the end, however, he handed the volume back to Garfield, shaking his head.

"I do not remember every book I ever sell," he said, regretfully. "Many different people come here. Some buy, some don't. I am sorry."

Victor thanked the man for his troubles as Garfield suppressed a groan.

"Now where are we supposed to look for her?" Garfield said, throwing his hands up in the air in frustration. He very nearly took out Victor's left eye with his theatrics. "She could be anywhere in the city!"

"I'm not sure," Victor said, giving the shopkeeper an apologetic glance, "but there ain't any use in us staying here."

The two men quickly thanked the shopkeeper once more as they headed back out onto the street. They stood there for a few moments, Garfield with his hands in his pockets and Victor with his arms crossed, in silence, unsure of where to go to next.

They eventually agreed upon this: it was futile to keep running around the city for the rest of the day. Perhaps Rachel was at work. It was a Saturday, after all. The two of them would then return home, gather their thoughts, and meet on the morrow. No one really worked Sundays, right?

It was as the two of them were walking back towards Washington Street that Victor remembered something.

"Hey," he said, turning to Garfield, "ain't Ms. Roth Jewish?"

Garfield shrugged. "I s'ppose so. I mean, her name is 'Rachel Roth,'" he said.

The two of them sat there for a moment, before simultaneously coming to a realization.

"If she's Jewish, she don't work on Saturdays-"

"-so she'll be working tomorrow!" Garfield finished.

Victor swore under his breath.

"We'll never find her if she's in a sweatshop all day!" Garfield said, his voice growing higher until t nearly resembled a whine.

"O.K. Fine, you know what?" Victor said. "We'll take to wandering around Market Street like we sometimes do, remember? Perhaps we can catch her there. We'll find her eventually."

Garfield nodded, his frustrated hysteria subsiding. "Right," he said. "Market. That's where most shops are. She's gotta be there. She's gotta."

"And if she's not," Victor said, always a voice of relative reason, "we'll have spent a day walking around the city. It's a perfectly decent pastime."

"Right," Garfield said, although by this point, neither of the men sounded entirely confident about the plans they were creating. Nevertheless, it was all they had.

So, Garfield and Victor, having reached 1021 Washington Street, agreed to part ways. They'd meet at Market Street the following morning, just as the first church services were finishing up. While the two of them had briefly worried about the fates of their immortal souls that would come about if they happened to miss a single Sunday service, they very quickly reassured themselves that God would rather they help a friend than mindlessly listen to a pastor drone on and on about Isaiah this and Malachi that. Right?

 **oOo**

The next morning was heralded in with the clanging of church bells. To some, it was a rude awakening at eight in the morning, yet to others, it was routine. Churchgoers from all over the city filed along obediently into their respective houses of worship, dressed in their best clothes. Women wore nobby two-piece suits, decorated with the latest scrollwork embroidery. Men had on pressed trousers and freshly shined shoes. And everywhere, it seemed, somberly-outfitted children ran about, their playtime exuberance not matching the level of formality of their clothing.

In the midst of it all, around the middle of the great stretch of Market Street at half-past eight, stood our two intrepid sleuths, Victor Stone and Garfield Logan. The latter had put on two pairs of socks this morning, for all the walking around yesterday had caused his feet to ache something awful; he was trying to prevent that from happening again today. After all, he had reasoned with himself in front of his clothes-trunk as he got dressed by his bunk in the Dublin Lodging House, he and Victor might have had to spend all of that Sunday wandering around the city. His feet would at least be prepared for that exercise.

On the other side of town at Washington Street that morning, Victor was having a similar conversation with himself as he completed his morning ablutions. It sometimes seemed to be a bit pointless, wasting so much of their time and effort looking for Ms. Roth, especially as Sergeant Grayson appeared to be a bit _blasé_ towards the situation.

 _But wasn't that what friendship was?_ Victor asked himself as he and Garfield stood alone on Market Street. _Ms. Roth had become their friend, even if they didn't know her all that well. It was only right for them to do this._

Around them, the street slowly grew emptier and emptier as the church services began. There were a few shopkeepers sweeping around their storefronts and a few housewives milling about, and to Victor's great joy, there was a pushcart vendor offering lemonade, either fresh-squeezed or ready-made. All this waiting around had made him quite thirsty and he had the extra penny to afford the fresh-squeezed.

"Why don't we visit some of the side streets?" Victor suggested, after the two had made their purchases from the pushcart. "That's where some sweatshops are. She could be working there."

It was as good a suggestion as any, and thus Victor and Garfield wove their way through a maze of streets, until they stood just two blocks from where the New City Hall was undergoing construction.

A nearby cathedral's bells rang, signalling both the end of the service and that it was nine o'clock in the morning. Before long, former worshippers poured out onto Golden Gate Avenue and the nearby Jones Street **,** greeting one another as they went.

Catching a few strains of conversation, Victor noted that these parishioners were German. This must have been the only German Catholic church in the city, St. Boniface's. Nevertheless, Victor brushed this off, for the parochial dealings of anyone in this city, English-speaking or otherwise, concerned him very little. Victor continued walking along Golden Gate Avenue, intent on eventually making his way back to Market, only to notice that Garfield wasn't following him. He turned towards his friend, about to ask what had gotten into him when Garfield just shook his head and pointed towards the entrance to the church.

"I think my eyes are playing tricks on me, Vic," Garfield said.

Victor squinted at what Garfield was pointing to. Wait. Not "what" - "who."

There, shaking hands with the reverend of St. Boniface's Roman Catholic Church as she said her goodbyes was one particular Ms. Rachel Roth. Victor almost didn't recognize her as she wasn't wearing her usual deep blue work-dress. Then again, how could it be anyone but her with those distinct features and large, dark eyes? A better question to ask was, what was Rachel doing at a Roman Catholic Church?

Garfield's voice was full of disbelief as he said, "A two-bit brothel, a Chinatown bookstore, and now this? I thought she was Jewish! Who is she? Did she just lead us on some wild-goose chase?"

Victor snorted with laughter, although he too was puzzled. "Clearly you didn't know her as well as you thought you did," he said. "I don't think any of us did." He didn't voice this next thought, but he felt as if he didn't know Ms. Roth at all.

It was then that Rachel Roth must've spotted the two of them, for her eyes went wide, her brow furrowed, and she very nearly tripped over her plum-colored walking suit as she stalked towards them in a fury.

"Mr. Stone, Mr. Logan," Rachel said, her greeting far too cold and impolite for one who had just spent an hour in church. "If I may ask, what are you doing here?"

Garfield laughed nervously, trying to think of a lie. He couldn't, so he just handed Rachel the Cantonese-English pocket dictionary.

"Here," he said, hoping she'd have mercy on him. "Elsie told me to give this to you."

Rachel raised an eyebrow, eyeing Garfield skeptically as she said, "Unless we are speaking of two different women named Elsie, am I correct when I say that you were at a particular Chinatown boarding house recently?"

Garfield looked away from Rachel, scratching the back of his head. "Um, yeah," he said, sheepishly, looking as if he were about to run away any minute now. "Well, yesterday."

"While you are free to do as you wish, Mr. Logan, in your leisure time," Rachel said, "and are free to visit such establishments whenever you wish, I have the feeling that that particular visit was not one for self-gratification. So, if I may ask once again, what are you doing here?"

At Rachel's harsh tone, both Victor and Garfield took a step back in self-defense. They did not want to share a similar fate as Arthur Light.

Victor was the one to answer her. "We and the others – Sergeant Grayson and Ms. Feuerstein – were worried after you ran off the other night," he said. "And when you didn't show up for supper last week with the rest of us, we wanted to see if you were all right. Sergeant Grayson convinced us to give you some time to reach out if you needed; that's why we waited so long."

Rachel froze for a moment before composing herself. She adjusted the lapels of her walking-suit jacket, saying, "While I thank you for your concern, Mr. Stone, I am perfectly all right. Now, if you don't mind, I must go home to do some mending before I go for dinner. My landlady is expecting me."

"Now, hold up!" Garfield said, as he reached out and grabbed Rachel by her coat-sleeve. She brushed him off nearly immediately but let him continue. "I ain't gonna say that I wasted two whole week-ends of my life trying to find you, only for you to just ignore us! You owe us an explanation."

"I don't owe you anything, Mr. Logan," Rachel said, attempting to sound more diplomatic. "While I apologize for not reaching out to any of you, especially to Sergeant Grayson, the details of my private life will remain just that: private."

Victor pulled Garfield aside and whispered to him, "Listen, I don't think we oughta drive her away like before. She knows we were concerned for her well-being and she knows not to run off like that again. We should just leave her be."

"All right," Garfield replied, _sotto voce._ He turned back towards Rachel, raising his voice as he said, "but just answer me this; why did you have that pocket dictionary?"

Rachel shrugged, giving her noncommittal answer when she said, "I assume that you've noticed that I read, Mr. Logan. Perhaps I was doing that and nothing more."

Garfield shook his head. "You and I both know that ain't it, Rachel. You're more likely to need a dictionary for Latin or some other boring, old language that no one speaks but you!"

Sighing, Rachel said, "Fine. I will add that I do know Latin, along with German, Roumanian, Yiddish, and French to varying levels of fluency. However, I am using that particular dictionary to translate correspondence with my mother. She can't always find an English-speaker to whom to dictate her letters and I don't have a strong grasp of the language as of yet."

It was a revealing statement and yet Rachel uttered it with her characteristic bluntness, as if she were describing a weather forecast.

The three of them floundered in an awkward silence as Garfield and Victor processed that which they had just heard.

"Oh." Realization was met.

"You're a-" Garfield said slowly. "You're- oh."

Rachel had to resist all urges not to clap a hand over Garfield's mouth.

"I cannot have this conversation here, though I suppose I will humor you," Rachel said. "May I suggest we visit someplace more quiet? More anonymous?"

Victor declined, shifting uncomfortably. "I'm sorry, Ms. Roth," he said, "for causing this disturbance, but I need time to think. You know where I may be reached."

With that, he beat a hasty retreat, turning the corner at Jones Street to presumably catch a trolley back up to Washington Street.

"He'll come around," Garfield said confidently, once he and Rachel were left alone. By this point, most of St. Boniface's parishioners had long since begun making their way home and Golden Gate Avenue was as empty as it could be for a Sunday morning. "Y'know, every Sunday, Vic and I try to go to California League Base-Ball Grounds, near Golden Gate Park."

Rachel was lost in thought for a moment, before she said, "I thought you'd be more of a racing man yourself, Mr. Logan, especially what's happening at the Bay District Track beginning next week."

Garfield shrugged this off. "I don't like the tracks and how they treat their racehorses, you know?" he said, to which Rachel nodded in agreement. "Base-ball, however...Vic and I love that. There's usually two games next week, at half-past eleven and half-past two. I know Vic likes San Jose's team, but they're playing this week, not the next."

"I don't understand," Rachel said. "Is there a particular reason why you're babbling on about this?"

Perhaps if the two were more intimate of friends, Garfield would've winked conspiratorially at her or nudged her on the shoulder. Instead, he just said, with an air of nonchalance, "When you're ready, you can meet us in the stands for one of the games. Vic will have thought things over by then."

"What a fascinating offer, truly," Rachel said, her voice practically a drawl. "Is there any incentive for me to go? Or will I just humor you once more?"

Here, Garfield did nudge her on the shoulder.

"Ladies go free," he said.

Rachel rolled her eyes as she began walking back towards Market Street. "You're absolutely ridiculous," she said, before she checked over her shoulder to ensure that Garfield was still in tow. "But, as I said that I will humor you - now I find that I regret my earlier words - may I suggest a confectionery at the top of 6th Street? They open early and many young women bring their beaus with them there, so I suppose we won't look too conspicuous there if it's just the two of us. You know how people can talk."

Garfield nodded, despite the fact that he had never had a young woman's sensibilities nor had he ever had to worry too much about social constraints or his own moral purity.

"Swell," he said. "Ice cream at barely eight in the morning."

Rachel merely rolled her eyes once more and beckoned Garfield to keep following her.

 **oOo**

It was not thirty minutes later when the two of them were seated at a little cafe table inside the ice cream parlor and confectionery with what they had ordered in front of them. Garfield hesitantly dipped the slender spoon into his dish of pistachio ice cream, for he was unsure if he should say anything or just begin eating. After he had enthused about this particular treat back on the street, Rachel hadn't said another word, except to request a small pot of tea. She could've chosen any of the fancy jellies or cakes that were on offer, Garfield had thought. Then again, in the two years or so that he'd known her, Garfield couldn't say that he'd ever seen Rachel actually eat anything. And the wafer that she'd probably had during Mass earlier that morning certainly didn't count.

"Are you sure you don't want anything to eat?" Garfield asked, just to be sure. "I'll buy you something. Bon bons? Cake?"

Shaking her head, Rachel firmly said, "No, Mr. Logan. I am quite all right with what I have."

"Fine," Garfield said, acquiescing. "But then, you'd better start talking. You said you'd explain yourself if we came here, so start talking."

Rachel fidgeted in her seat momentarily, twisting the cloth of the napkin in her lap with her still-gloved fingers. Eventually, she took a deep breath and asked, "Well, what is it you want to know? The first thing?"

Garfield had evidently lined up all of his infinite questions in his head, for he had one at the ready.

"Why were you at that church?" he asked.

Rachel shrugged as she said, "I was attending Sunday morning mass. The eight o'clock one, as is my habit." she left it at that, giving Garfield room for any further inquisition.

"All right," Garfield said, "then why're you named 'Rachel Roth'? Vic and I thought you was Jewish or something. But you were just in a church! A German church. You shook hands with the Reverend!"

Rachel just stared at him, unsure of why he was so surprised by this. "Take care not to raise your voice too much," she said. "We wouldn't want to raise the suspicions of any of the other patrons."

Garfield let out a noise of frustration as he said, quite repetitively, "Your name is Rachel. _Rachel_ Roth. And you're Roman Catholic? But I thought-"

Rachel's responding tone was growing increasingly short. "Surnames are not always indicative of personal conviction, Mr. Logan. You should also learn that 'Roth' is not just a Hebrew surname," she said. "And the nuns must've had a sense of humor when they named me. They assumed my background and gave me a name that reflected that assumption, despite the fact that I know neither of my parents were of the Hebrew religion. Still, it's a name and it's my own. Does this explanation satisfy you?"

"I s'ppose," Garfield said. He paused, before adding, "So you weren't raised by either of your parents?"

"No," Rachel said, shaking her head slightly. She made move to continue speaking but thought the better of it.

As she did so, Garfield sensed that she was beginning to close herself off from the conversation once more. So, he said, "That's something we have in common."

"Really?" Rachel said, more skeptical of the possibility that she and Garfield had something in common than of the fact that he had no parents.

"Yeah," Garfield said. He looked down to seek that his ice cream was melting, so he quickly took a few bites. The conversation stalled a bit as he did so. "My mother and father were Scottish missionaries based in the Cape of Good Hope - they'd gone over there the same time as Livingstone's wife, you know - but like many others, they died prematurely. I was about seven when they died. That was when several missionaries came over from Scotland, and I was adopted by two of them, an older married couple. We moved to New York not long after and when I was fifteen, I came out here to San Francisco."

Rachel said, "I suppose you'll want to hear about me, then."

Garfield nodded in between spoonfuls of ice cream. He had begun rushing to get those last words out and Rachel had picked up on that discomfort.

"What can I say?" Rachel began. "My mother was a common Chinatown woman, her profession limited by laws of this country. As you might guess, I was brought into this world due to that particular line of work."

Garfield's face first blanched before turning a brilliant vermillion – vaudeville actresses would've sold their souls for a rouge of that shade - at the implications of the statement. Despite her companion nearly having an aneurysm at the table, Rachel continued her storytelling.

"As soon as I was born, I was deposited at the doorstep of the Roman Catholic Orphan Asylum here in the city," she said. "Unlike you, I was never adopted."

"You ain't missed much," Garfield said. He hesitantly asked her, "But do you know who your father is?"

Rachel made move to shrug nonchalantly and take a sip of her tea, although she ultimately decided against it, instead looking Garfield right in the eye with utter solemnity. "That night, at the theatre with Dr. Light," she said, "I had just received a letter from my mother; she told me that my father was looking for me. I will not go into any further detail, you understand, but I will say that he is a minor politician of English descent, here in California."

Garfield looked at her with sympathy. "Wow," was all he could say.

"Let it be said that I have issues with my father," Rachel said, "and let's leave it at that."

The conversation took on a lighter tone after that, although Rachel and Garfield couldn't say that they had very much in common with one another in terms of conversational topics. Mostly, they stayed on the side of discussing current goings-on in the city and the decor of the confectionery shop. In the end, Rachel had agreed to let Garfield buy her a small slice of iced fruitcake.

"I'm sorry again for being so...you know," Garfield said, as he slid the cake plate across the table to Rachel. "But I'm glad that Vic and I found you today."

Rachel let out an unbelieving "hmph" as she took the first bite of the fruitcake.

"No, it's true," Garfield said. "I ain't, maybe, the best with words, but I just wanna say that you're my friend, you hear?"

There was silence from Rachel's side of the table, where the young woman was slowly finishing off her cake. Garfield watched her for what seemed like an hour before she finally cleaned the plate and spoke.

"I make it no secret that I tolerate you at best, Mr. Logan," Rachel said, after she had dabbed at her mouth with her napkin to remove some traces of icing. Her companion made move to protest this sentiment, although Rachel continued. "Nevertheless, I appreciate your efforts, along with Victor's, this week-end. So, thank you."

Garfield knew that that was as far as Rachel's sentiments would reach that day, and when he saw the young woman reach into her purse to pay the bill, he quickly slammed a quarter down on the table before she had the chance to do so.

Rachel was about to object when Garfield said, "You still don't owe me anything." She deflated and even half-heartedly accepted his offer to accompany her home. _It was only practical,_ she reasoned to herself, _since they lived within three blocks of one another_. She refused to think about how unfortunate that proximity would be.

As they stood up and gathered their belongings, Garfield looked as if he was bracing himself for a blow and said, "You know I'm gonna tell Vic about this, right?"

"I had figured," Rachel said, although her usual irritation at things like these gone from her voice.

Garfield let out a breath of relief. "Oh, good," he said, now that his imminent death was no longer so imminent.

 **oOo**

It was a short walk to where Rachel lived, in rented room with a Roumanian family.

"Well, here we are," Garfield said, as they stood outside of the clapboard house.

"Indeed," Rachel said. She was about to unlock the front door, before she turned to look at Garfield. "Listen, Mr. Logan, you have my gratitude for today; those sentiments extend, as is to be expected, to Mr. Stone, also. And, I assure you that I will alert Sergeant Grayson as to my whereabouts within a week."

Garfield nodded in assent, tipping his hat slightly as he bid her goodbye. However, as Rachel had let herself into her house and was about to shut the door, Garfield couldn't resist shouting to her, "So, does this mean that Vic and I'll see you next Sunday at the base-ball field?"

His answer was a resounding slam of the front door.

"See you then!" he called once more, before turning around and traversing only a few blocks back to his lodging-house.

As he made his way back to his lodging-house, Garfield couldn't help but sing under his breath the refrain of a song he'd seen performed during Hoyt's "A Trip to Chinatown" nearly a year prior at the New Bush St. Theatre.

"Oh, the night that I struck New York, I went out for a quiet walk. Folks who are 'on to' the city say, better by far that I took Broadway…"

Once he'd arrived inside of the lodging-house, he unlaced his boots, took off his two pairs of socks, and settled onto his bed - his familiar bottom bunk closest to the window - all the while continuing the song.

"…I had one of the devil's own nights. I'll never go there anymore."


	8. After the Ball is Over

**I apologize for how late this update was. On the bright side, it's the first original, non-rewritten chapter!**

 **oOo**

"Oh, how I wish that Rachel had met with us for supper," Stella said, sighing. Richard offered her his arm, which she readily accepted as the two of them began walking away from Signor Annella's restaurant and into the San Franciscan night.

"Ms. Feuerstein," Richard said, his tone curt and almost patronizing, "I assure you that Rachel is absolutely fine. Besides, we'll soon hear from Mr. Logan and Mr. Stone as to her whereabouts. If there is anything wrong with her – and once again, I assure you there is not – we will soon now. But, for now, all we can do is wait."

Stella still looked uncertain, saying, "Still, I wish she would have at least let us know. We are her friends, no?"

When Richard didn't respond, Stella's face fell, realizing that he really was going to be absolutely stubborn with her on this matter. Richard must've seen this slight change in is companion's expression for his own features softened as he said, "Stel– Ms. Feuerstein, Rachel is our friend and as her friends, it is our duty to be concerned for her wellbeing. I am quite sure she would be thankful for your concern. However, she is a busy woman as we are also two busy people. Perhaps she had just forgotten. But please, can we let this matter rest?"

After a moment's hesitation, Stella nodded resolutely. She thought briefly about ignoring Richard on their walk back to her residence but she decided that a change in subject would be more appropriate to their current conversation.

"Mr. Grayson," she said, "who is this Katherine Walker that you mentioned earlier? Is she a member of the nobility?"

Richard shook his head, saying, "America has no need for nobility and it never will. However, I feel as if her father, Mr. Walker, sometimes wishes that he were a member of nobility. This isn't the first lavish party he'll have thrown nor will it be the last. Sometimes I wonder where all of his money comes from. It isn't as if the man is particularly bright and his daughter seems to take after him in that regard."

The two of them were silent for a brief pause before Stella let out a snort of laughter. Richard smiled at her.

"Now, Ms. Feuerstein," he said with an uncharacteristic amount of lightness in his tone, "at the ball in a week's time, don't let Kitty Walker hear you say anything of the sort or she'll try to claw at you."

Stella laughed but then asked Richard, "'Kitty'?"

Richard nodded. "It's her preferred nickname as of now," he said. "Although, in the days just after I had graduated from university, she used to be known as 'Kitten.'"

Stella snorted with laughter once more. "An absolutely ridiculous name," she said.

Laughing, Richard agreed. "Nevertheless, it suits her," he said. "She's an absolutely ridiculous girl. Very different from a woman such as yourself."

Feeling her face grow warm, Stella stopped walking and turned to look Richard in the eyes. "And what do you mean by that, Mr. Grayson?"

Though Richard tried to break Stella's intense eye contact with him, he found that he couldn't. "Oh, nothing really," he said. "But I did want to ask what you were going to do in terms of a gown. I apologize that this is all so last minute and that I hadn't asked sooner."

Stella shrugged delicately as she said, "It is no problem. One of the other girls at the Westmoreland most likely has a gown that I can borrow. They always wear such lovely things."

"Are you sure?" Richard said. "I can lend you money if you should like to visit the shops along Market Street."

Although she looked as if she were seriously considering this gracious offer, Stella ultimately declined. "Thank you, no," she said. "Now that I've thought about it a bit more, I do remember I have a gown from my time at May-Eileen's. It is a few years out of style, but with some new trim, I am certain I can make it over again!"

This answer satisfied Richard. Despite him never having an interest in women's fripperies, he couldn't help but look forward to seeing what Stella's updated gown would look like.

As the two of them continued walking, the conversation flitted from one subject to the next until Stella and Richard found themselves outside of the Westmoreland hotel.

"I'll see you in a week," Stella said as she gently squeezed Richard's arm by way of a farewell gesture before stepping into the lobby of the hotel.

Stella was nearly out of sight when Richard found the ability to breathe normally again, his heart no longer racing. He rubbed his arm where Stella's touch had been not moments before.

"Yeah," he said. "A week."

And then he began his long trek home, forgoing a trolley as he decided that a long walk in the brisk October air would do his disorganized thoughts some good.

 **oOo**

The next week passed by uneventfully – Richard only had to file multitudes of paperwork but it was all frightfully dull – and soon it was the day of Katherine Walker's festivities.

While Garfield and Victor were off gallivanting about the seamier districts of San Francisco, Richard Grayson found himself in front of the Westmoreland Hotel once more. As he stepped out of the hansom cab he'd hired, Richard subtly loosened his cravat. He'd tied it far too tightly earlier on in the morning in an uncharacteristic bout of nervousness. He checked his timepiece moreso out of habit than of need for the time, for it had been less than a minute since the last time he'd pulled the watch out of his pocket, as he waited for Stella to emerge from the hotel.

While Richard was waiting, a couple of street-urchins offered to shine his shoes for him. Richard politely declined; he always felt weary having unknown street rats so close to his person. After the first time he was pickpocketed, back in Manhattan, he had never wanted to risk such an occurrence again. The sun had set around twenty minutes earlier and Richard found himself growing anxious as San Francisco turned dark around him. Thankfully for his nerves, Stella soon stepped out of her hotel. She noticed Richard and quickly walked over to him, her cheeks growing flushed from the October night air.

Richard had never been considered knowledgeable when it came to women's fashion. Perhaps if he had been, he would have commented on the clever way Stella had altered the dress' former bustle apron (for bustles were around two years out of style) into the _de rigeur_ sleeves that the dress now sported. Or, perhaps he might have commented on the charming way the white lace and silk moiré ribbons among the front of the bodice set off Stella's skin tone. Along a similar vein, the light pink silk shantung of the dress did not clash with the red in Stella's hair but instead brought out the green in her eyes. Sure, having a gown trimmed with that much lace was not the latest _mode,_ but it was a pretty ensemble and Stella wore it well.

However, as Richard knew nothing of women's clothing, he merely stuttered out a few compliments such as "You look nice, Ms. Feuerstein," or, "What a becoming gown." Platitudes, really.

Stella merely smiled at this praise; she was quite pleased with herself for her skill in alterations. She was absolutely hopeless at crafting new garments from scratch but she could alter almost any article of her clothing if needed.

"Thank you, Sergeant Grayson," she said, demurely lowering her eyes.

Belatedly, she reached into the purse (also made out of the bustle apron) she had brought with her, pulling out a white carnation. She delicately tucked it into Richard's lapel and then blushed modestly, turning away from him coquettishly.

"I hope you do not mind," she said, gesturing to the flower. "I hear it is custom to use a white carnation. I could not find any gardenias at this time of year at an affordable price."

Richard felt his throat grow dry but he managed to say, "Oh, not at all. I don't mind, that is."

Stella offered him a smile and he held out his arm to her in return. She accepted it and soon they both stepped into the hired hansom.

"It's only a short way to the Walker Mansion," Richard said to Stella, once they were inside the hansom carriage. He then gave the address of the mansion to the driver, who set them on their course.

Throughout the drive, no matter how short it actually was, Stella could practically feel herself vibrating with excitement. Back home, she had never been old enough to participate in any of the social events of her parents or of those of her socioeconomic standing. She had only been a girl then. A young, naïve girl. However, now she would be able to go to a ball – a real _American_ ball. Oh, how she hoped it would live up to her expectations. From the looks of the Walker Mansion, once the carriage had arrived in the front, Stella supposed that her expectations would most definitely be exceeded.

The mansion could not be compared to the grand homes back in Russian Poland, for those had age on their side. Instead, the Walker Mansion represented everything that Gilded Age America was. It was brassy, loud, sprawling, and toeing the line between tasteful and tacky. Clearly Mr. Walker was a man of new money, so to speak. It showed in the gaudy cornices and the overabundance of columns. Yet, it most certainly was impressive. Even Richard couldn't help but whistle appreciatively at the sight of the building.

"Well, here we are," he said, helping Stella out of the carriage and onto the sidewalk in front of the mansion. "The home of Mr. Drury and Ms. Katherine Walker."

Stella delicately stepped out of the carriage, grateful that the ground wasn't muddy at all – she'd hate to dirty her slippers, even if they were second-hand from one of the other girls at May-Eileen's.

Once Richard paid the hansom driver, he and Stella made their way into the mansion, where they were received by the butler.

"Names?" the butler asked, holding out his hand for the invitation

Richard pulled the envelope out of his breast pocket and handed it to the butler.

"Sergeant Richard Grayson," he said. He gestured to his companion. "And this is Miss Stella Feuerstein."

The butler nodded curtly, recognizing Richard's title – if not his name - and showed them inside.

While the main festivities were taking place in a rectangular room off to the left, the butler pointed out two cloak-rooms to their right. One was for the ladies and served as both a cloak-room and a powder room.

"It even has four maids hired just for this night," the butler remarked idly. Stella let out a little gasp of wonder which amused the butler greatly. "And the other for the gentleman, although Mr. Walker regrets only having hired one male attendant."

Richard assured the man that this was more than enough and the butler soon returned back to his post at the door to greet any other guests.

Richard and Stella briefly parted ways to leave their personal affects in the cloakrooms before they met outside of the refreshment-room. As they were about to enjoy some of the bonbons, sandwiches, and claret punch that was on display, they were accosted by a young woman with a tightly-twisted coiffure and a fine purple gown. From the air of self-importance that oozed off of her person, this must have been Katherine Walker. Indeed, she very quickly introduced herself as such.

"Charmed, I'm sure," Richard said dryly, only lightly kissing her offered hand.

Kitty Walker barely acknowledged Stella, instead making small talk with Richard.

"And what is your name?" she asked coyly. "You seem to be an important figure, with a serious demeanor like that; you might find I like a man with authority."

Richard tried not to grimace too obviously before introducing himself.

Unfortunately, Kitty Walker misheard his Christian name as "Robert" instead of "Richard" – the four musicians in the adjacent main room had just played a horribly sour note that disrupted everyone's sense of hearing.

"Robert?" she said, ignoring Richard's gestures as to the contrary. "I quite like that. I think I shall call you 'Robbie'. It's such a sweet name!"

Kitty sauntered off before Richard could protest, no doubt seeing some schoolyard chums in the main hall. Richard especially bristled at being called "sweet," however inadvertently. It was not a word he'd ever use to describe himself. Eventually, Richard and Stella followed her for they figured that they were going to have to make their way into the main hall eventually. After all, this was an event centered on dancing, not the ices and jellies in the refreshment-room.

Once in the main hall, Richard and Stella were handed dance cards by a practically-unseen attendant. The dance cards acted as programs for the evening's activities with one side of the card listing the dances and the other side listing numbered spaces in which one would pencil in the name of one's dance partner. A pencil attached by a blue satin ribbon added to the convenience of this design. Stella opened up her card and carefully skimmed its contents.

"Twenty-two dances?" she asked Richard, who shrugged. "That seems like an awful lot to me."

Before Richard could respond – perhaps he would have asked her to join in on the current dance, a quadrille, if he had had the chance – he was called away by the sister of a mutual acquaintance. The two quickly swept out onto the immaculately-polished hardwood dance floor, leaving Stella to stand off to the side.

Stella tried not to feel too distraught at this abrupt abandonment. Truth be told, she barely knew how to dance a quadrille anyway, so perhaps this was for the best. She glanced at her program. Perhaps Richard would ask her to join him for the York or the Parisienne. Seventh was a waltz. Perhaps that would be enjoyable.

Time wore on and a polka and schottische passed by without Richard so much as even attempting to ask Stella to dance. Stella knew that it was unseemly for a gentleman and a lady to dance more than three times together at one event and that she could never have just clung to Richard's coattails all night, but she still felt incredibly out of place here. These were all Americans. Most of them knew each other. The other partygoers were surrounded by friends and seemed to be having a grand old time.

When the schottische ended, the intermission began. Those that had been dancing filed out of the main hall to drink some punch or to take a walk through the Walker's back gardens. In this maelstrom of people, Stella was not able to find Richard so she, too, made her way to the refreshment-room. If she had been more skilled at the piano, she might have entertained some of the stragglers. However, she had never been too musically-inclined and it was for the good of the other guests tonight that she not try her hand at the instrument.

The dancing soon resumed with yet another quadrille. Stella eventually spotted Richard. To no one's surprise, he was dancing yet again with Kitty Walker. Even though she would ever deny having kept count, Stella knew that this was Richard's third dance with Kitty Walker and the night was only half over.

Huffing with a mixture of annoyance and displeasure, Stella stood, deciding to take a turn about the ballroom. The room itself was sparsely furnished with only the paintings hanging on the wall providing any semblance of decoration.

Most of the paintings were unremarkable in Stella's opinion; cheap imitations of works from the Biedermeier period earlier on in the century. A few seemed more contemporary and very obviously American. One in particular seemed familiar to Stella. She stepped between a few chairs to be nearer to the wall to get a closer look.

The painting she was looking at was an unremarkable landscape. It would never be found in a museum or even a half-decent art gallery. Instead, it looked very familiar to a painting of rural California that Stella had seen in one of the hallways at the Westmoreland. She distinctly remembered having asked one of the hotel porters as to the identity of the artist, as she had been quite interested in locally-produced art at the time.

"Ah, Frank Something-or-Other," the porter had told her. _What a helpful young man,_ Stella had remembered remarking to herself sarcastically.

The similarities between the painting at the Westmoreland and the one right in front of her at the Walker Mansion were almost too obvious. Stella did not consider herself particularly knowledgeable on the subject of painting nor could she call herself a patron of the arts. However, just by looking at the painting in front of her, she could tell that it was created by the same hand as the one at the Westmoreland – Frank Something-or-Other.

Yet, as Stella drew closer to this painting, she noticed that the signature was that of G. Courbet.

Gustave Courbet, who had been dead for almost fifteen years and whose propensity for painting female nudity divided public opinion surrounding his works, absolutely could not have produced this work. Reader, I am quite sure that the man would be insulted at such a notion.

Stella laughed softly at this blatant forgery of such a famous painter's signature but she ultimately did not see any harm in it. If Mr. Walker was gullible enough to buy such an obvious fake of a painting, Stella didn't see why she had to let him know. So, she pushed this to the back of her mind. Perhaps she'd have a few biscuits and some claret in the meantime.

 **oOo**

Back on the dance floor, Richard was absolutely and whole-heartedly sick of Miss Katherine Walker. Part of his disgust was towards the girl's overwhelming perfume but most of it was simply due to the girl herself. This was his fifth dance with Kitty Walker, a Parisienne; highly inappropriate but Kitty Walker had _insisted._ So, here Richard was.

He vowed never to dance again. Not even at his own wedding, if he could help it.

By this point, Richard had tuned out Kitty Walker's droning voice; the girl was a bore, truly, who concerned herself with romance, novels, and other such foolish pursuits. Not that he was listening in the first place, of course. Kitty Walker had lost all credibility as soon as she had begun calling Richard "Robbie." She was still calling him that and, frankly, it was infuriating.

However, something caught Richard's attention.

"…and Daddy was telling me that he had managed to sell another one to collectors," Kitty said, oblivious as to her dance partner's hostile feelings towards her person.

 _Another what?_ Richard wondered. The music picked up and he obligingly continued to lead Kitty Walker as they danced.

"I told him, 'Daddy, how many people are there who want Courbets?'" Kitty said. "That man painted absolutely vile things! I mean, the amount of women without even their shifts on…"

This was information that Richard retained because it had struck him as quite odd. Sure, Mr. Walker was wealthy. He certainly lived like much of the upper echelons of American society. However, he was neither wealthy enough or in a place to own more than one Courbet solely for the purpose of selling it. After all, it wasn't as if Courbet was some unnamed painter. The artist was influential even if his subject matter was more controversial. Richard found it highly unlikely that Mr. Walker genuinely was in possession of more than one Courbet although he merely pitied the man for his naivety.

And, thankfully for Richard, the next dance soon began; a polka. He was able to break free from Kitty Walker's white-gloved grasp, although not before the girl violently penciled in her name on his dance card next to the space where it said: "Virginia Reel." Richard tersely thanked his companion before he made his way – quite out of breath and absolutely sick of dancing – to the refreshment-room.

There, he encountered Stella, who _hmph_ -ed and turned her back on him.

"Miss Feuerstein," Richard said, reverting back to formal addresses by way of apology, "have I done something wrong?"

Stella _hmph_ -ed again.

"Look, I apologize for not dancing with you yet," Richard said, running his hand through his hair. He grimaced at the amount of Macassar oil that his gloved fingers picked up and he discreetly wiped the kid leather on a cocktail napkin that someone had left lying around. "I had forgotten that I knew so many people present here. Outside of work, I hardly have time to meet with any of them. Many of them I used to consider my friends."

Eventually, Stella spoke, saying, "I thought that I was considered one of your friends, Sergeant Grayson. Would you not offer a friend a dance?"

Richard had the good graces to look embarrassed by this. He opened his mouth but couldn't get a word out properly. He then swallowed and said, "I promise we shall dance the final one together – Home Sweet Home, as is tradition here."

To show his sincerity as to this matter, Richard made sure that Stella could see him write her name next to the final dance in his card.

Stella seemed mollified by this and Richard took this opportunity to present her with some tea. He also had a cup for himself.

"So," Richard said, "what have you been up to if you haven't been dancing."

Taking a sip of her tea, Stella mentioned that she hadn't been up to much, only that she'd found something interesting about the paintings hanging from the walls in the main hall.

Hearing this, Richard's eyes lit up. "I recall Ms. Walker told me about her father selling at least two Courbet paintings," he said. "I found it odd but not worth questioning at the time."

"It would be easier to find those paintings if they were forged," Stella remarked casually. She then explained to Richard that which she had found earlier.

Richard processed this information, mulling it over in his head before saying, "But why would Mr. Walker sell such obvious fakes if he didn't know about them? He could have just sold some lesser-known artist's works for probably the same amount of profit."

"Unless," Stella said, "he is not as innocent as we had first supposed."

Nodding along, Richard added, "Perhaps he and the artist – Frank Whoever – were working in tandem on this venture. Frank would create the paintings, obviously copies of one of his original works, while Mr. Walker would act as the broker…"

"And they'd split the profit," Stella said in conclusion. After a few moments, she said, "Is there anything we should do about this situation?"

Richard shrugged apologetically, saying, "I'm sure I'll think of something."

It looked as if Richard wanted to say more. However, the lively strains of the Virginia reel could be heard. The penultimate dance was beginning and Richard had promised it to Kitty Walker.

"I'm sorry," he said to Stella, not eager in the slightest to earn his companion's ire once again.

This time, Stella was more forgiving; the thought of sharing the last dance together must have soothed her. She merely shooed him towards the main hall, declaring that she needed to go to the powder room to freshen up anyway.

As Stella was powdering her nose, Richard reluctantly located Kitty Walker and asked her to dance. While they had rejoined the other partygoers on the dance floor, Richard decided to talk to Kitty once more about her father's artistic (so to speak) endeavors. He figured that Kitty was not the brightest girl and that she was bound to let something about her father slip out sooner rather than later.

However, this time, Kitty Walker would not be fooled so easily. Sure, she was the girl who once made the society pages for asking how much a half-dollar was worth and she had also never managed to pass any of her high school exams, but Kitty Walker was not as much of an idiot as everyone seemed to think she was.

"You know, Robbie," she said, looking Richard straight in the eye, "I don't like how much you're asking about Daddy's paintings."

Richard tried to assure her that he was just making conversation but Kitty would hear none of it.

"Daddy!" she screamed. It was a truly awful sound and few to this day will ever hear a shriek so shrill and high-pitched.

The ball came to a complete halt. Richard tried to duck away, his face reddening in embarrassment, but was unable to escape.

Mr. Walker ran over to where his daughter was standing, almost as if he was appearing out of the woodwork.

"What is the meaning of this?" he said.

Richard felt his cheeks grown even redder than before.

"Daddy," Kitty Walker said, stamping her foot petulantly, "Robbie here's been asking about your paintings."

Even without her theatrical wink, Kitty's insinuation could not have been made clearer to her father, who blanched.

The game was over, the jig was up; Drury Walker had been found out. Suddenly, the man turned nervous. He pulled Richard aside, trying to be as discreet as possible in a packed ballroom.

"Now listen here, mister," Mr. Walker said to Richard under his breath, who didn't even bother to correct the man's incorrect address. "If it's money you want, just name your price. I'm sure we could come to an agreement of sorts."

Richard shook his head, pushing the older man away from him.

"I don't stand for this kind of graft," he said, standing tall. "Keep your money."

Mr. Walker, not being the most rational-minded of men, then attempted to pick a fight with Richard. Despite his age, he had clearly had some skill in the matter and was thus able to engage Richard in a crude sort of match.

"I do not wish to get into this fight," Richard said. Mr. Walker ignored him as was evident by blow that was soon landed on his cheekbone. "Although, if I must, I will not shy away from it."

From a distance, it looked like a brawl between a couple of schoolboy, made especially comical by the fact that both men were in their coattails and boutonnieres.

Across the hall, Stella stepped through the arched doorway, having finished with her business in the cloak-room. Seeing Richard in distress, she slipped back out of the main hall and into one of the servant's hallways. She waved over the nearest servant, a young maid, saying, "Is there a telephone I may use?"

The maid nodded and showed Stella into Mr. Walker's office on the second floor of the mansion.

Very quickly, Stella was able to get in contact with the police who assured her that they would be at the Walker Mansion within the half-hour. Stella thanked them profusely and then hastily rejoined the commotion in the main hall. She made her way towards the fighting men.

"Sergeant Grayson!" she called, trying to get Richard's attention. It did not work. Instead, Stella felt a tap on her shoulder. She whirled around to see Kitty Walker standing incredibly close to her, ready to mirror her father's pugilistic behavior. Stella, however, had little time for such a petty fight. So, when Kitty attempted to scratch her face, having since removed her white gloves, Stella merely shoved her away like she was an annoying child and nothing more. That wasn't too far from the truth in all actuality.

With Kitty Walker subdued, Drury Walker and Richard were soon separated by some of the male guests. Tensions gradually lowered and partygoers steadily filed out of the main hall – the festivities were very obviously canceled for the night, much to the groaning of the dancers.

The police arrived not long after with a young man in tow.

"Ah, Matt, Charlie!" Richard called from his seat off to the side when he noticed two of his coworkers enter the hall. "Who's this, then?"

One of the officers, Charlie, gestured to the man he had in handcuffs, saying, "This is Frank. We caught him outside in the gardens trying to escape the property."

At the introduction of this young man, Kitty let out yet another loud shriek. She ran over to Frank and the two embraced as lovers (well, to the best of their abilities, seeing as Frank was still in police custody).

It was Matt, the other officer, who made the arrest of Mr. Walker, Miss Katherine Walker, and Frank for art fraud. Perhaps the reader can guess that this was the same Frank who was the local artist whom Stella had noticed earlier.

Richard made his way to Stella's side as the two of them watched these proceedings.

"Did you expect that something like this would happen tonight?" Stella said.

"Trouble has a way of finding us," Richard said, although he shook his head. "However, I cannot say that I expected something like this. The Chronicle is bound to sell well tomorrow because of this."

Stella nodded in agreement. "It is a shame that I can never look at that painting at the Westmoreland again in the same light," she said. "It was not anything special but it was pleasant enough to look at."

"Well," Richard said, "I suppose you'll always remember this night when you pass by it."

"I suppose," Stella said.

The two stood in silence together after that as the three criminals were escorted out by Matt and Charlie and the rest of the remaining guests soon returned home. Stella and Richard retrieved their belongings from the cloak-rooms before they headed out.

"You know," Stella said as they stepped out onto the street before either of them had had a chance to hail a cab, "we never did dance together tonight."

Richard nodded slowly. Eventually, he said, "I do know of a dancing academy on New Montgomery Street. The old married couple who runs it normally give lessons during the week but they host a soiree on Sundays. If we hurry, we might be able to catch the last few dances there."

"But that's across town!" Stella said.

Grinning, Richard said, "We'd better beat it, then."

So, the two hastened to New Montgomery Street, hailing a cab and hoping that they would make it there on time.

 **oOo**

It was several hours later that Richard and Stella finally returned to the Westmoreland Hotel. Technically, it was already Monday morning and Richard was dreading returning to work at the office in less than eight hours. Still, the evening had very much been worth it.

He walked Stella up to the main door of the hotel, bidding her a good night.

"Thank you for this evening, Sergeant Grayson, and that dance" she said in return. Almost impulsively, just before stepping inside the hotel's lobby, Stella gave Richard a kiss on the cheek. "Good night, Richard."

She blushed prettily as she then ran inside.

All Richard could do was stand there in shock, a hand brushing against that particular spot on his cheek.

"Good night, Stella," he said, although the street was empty by this point and he was all alone.

 **oOo**

The next Thursday at around six o'clock, Richard was reading the afternoon paper in his office; Katherine Walker had been let go without having been charged for anything and was now off to live with a cousin in Schenectady. Frank and Mr. Walker, on the other hand, had their trials scheduled for mid-November and were most certainly going to be found guilty. Of course, art fraud was not a very serious crime and so they would only face a few years in prison at most. Surely the two men could survive a small trial such as that.

Richard had just gotten to the sensationalist retelling in the newspaper of his fight with Mr. Walker – highly exaggerated, naturally – when there was a knock on his office door.

"Enter," he said.

His secretary Ann Brush poked her head through the door.

"There's a woman here to see you, sir," she said.

Richard thanked her as she retreated. Immediately after, a familiar figure with a penchant for dressing in blue stepped through the door.

"Hello, Sergeant Grayson," Rachel Roth said. "I apologize for not stopping by sooner."

She remained standing until Richard gestured for her to take a seat.

"Perhaps I should explain myself."

With these words, Rachel began recounting – with some omissions for privacy's sake – all that had happened recently surrounding her disappearance and her subsequent discovery at the hands of Messrs. Stone and Logan. It was a long tale nonetheless.

 **oOo**

Three days later, Rachel slipped into the stands of the California League Base-Ball Grounds. Admission was free for ladies but she'd still needed to pay for a trolley ticket. Hopefully she wouldn't come to regret the loss of that money.

"Tell me what's happening," she said as she sat beside two men who were inexplicably dressed in their Sunday best at a base-ball game (they'd clearly just come from church).

The shorter man of the two lit up when he noticed that Rachel had joined them; this was, of course, Garfield Logan.

"Ms. Roth," he said, "you made it!"

Rachel nodded. She looked over at Victor, who was the other man beside Garfield. Victor gave her a soft smile which she hesitantly returned. All was well between them in that moment. The events and conflicts of the past week had been resolved.

"Now," Rachel said, "all I know is that the two teams playing are Oakland and Sacramento. Inform me as to the rest of what's going on here. I'm not well-versed in base-ball."

Victor and Garfield were more than happy to oblige.

"You see, it's the top of the third inning…"

"…and there are nine of those…"


	9. New Troubles Arise

Rachel sighed in exasperation as she looked at the mess in front of her. The bowls and pans scattered across the kitchen table were all coated with a fine layer of flour and every here and there was a streak of sweet butter. The tin of cocoa had, at some point, fallen to the floor; luckily it had remained sealed. If it had spilled, Rachel probably would have set the entire kitchen on fire in order to clean up the mess. That would have been the only solution.

Still, there was a chocolate cake, mostly baked, on a dish by the range. It was lopsided and still raw in the middle but it seemed to be a cake. Rachel hazarded a taste, breaking off some of the outer edge of the cake, although she immediately spat it out into her handkerchief. _Oh, God,_ she thought, _it was truly awful._

She stood in the middle of the kitchen for several minutes, unsure of what to do. It had been a waste of money to bake this cake, for neither butter nor cocoa could be considered inexpensive and a colossal waste of time. On top of that, she had absolutely no idea why the others had asked her to bake a cake in the first place – not that any of them would have known what a truly horrendous cook she'd turn out to be – as Richard's housekeeper and cook, Mrs. O'Doyle, was more than qualified for such a task. Perhaps the cook had far too many other things to prepare; Rachel would never understand the reasoning behind it. In the end, she tied her apron strings tighter set about cleaning the place. It took the greater part of an hour but eventually the kitchen resembled how Rachel's landlady, Mrs. Feinsohn, normally kept it.

A quick glance at the mantelpiece clock reminded Rachel that she would have to be at Pacific Heights within the next hour if she should wish to be on time. She was usually one to be strictly punctual and so she grabbed her coat and her hat and bolted out the front door of the tenement. The remains of the chocolate cake still sat on the dish by the range. She'd pick up some confection from a local bakery on her way.

 **oOo**

It was not long before Rachel had arrived at Richard Grayson's house in Pacific Heights, two parcels wrapped in brown paper tucked under her arm. The smaller parcel was a slice of cake – thankfully, not chocolate – from the German baker just off of Minna Street and the larger parcel contained a birthday gift for Victor. While Victor Stone's twenty-seventh birthday wouldn't take place for another four days, the _Titans_ were gathering the Sunday before for a party of sorts.

Since the whole debacle during Kitty Walker's debutante ball, the five members of the _Titans_ had only met up a few times. Not that crime was particularly slow in San Francisco, mind you, but it seemed slower that it had been before. So, when our five protagonists did meet, they did so mostly as friends, as comrades, content to just spend time in one another's company. Richard's Pacific Heights home – more of a mansion, really – had become the new gathering place of this intrepid quintet. Signor Annella's restaurant lacked the privacy they desired in their conversations and Richard had refused to step foot in any of the saloons or ice cream parlors that Garfield and Victor suggested. And since the previous October, in a span of nearly eleven months, they had all only managed to meet at Richard's home four times. I suppose this can be explained by lack of availability. Most everyone worked six days a week and thus were only free on the week-end; on Sunday. Yet, leisurely Sunday afternoons were rare, as chores and errands occupied quite a bit of time.

Rachel knocked firmly on the front door, eager to step inside and get out of the heat. San Franciscan weather during the month of September was always incredibly hot. Despite the arrival of autumn in a week's time, it still felt like the sweltering days of summer. And, dressed in the sturdy blue wool dress, as was dictated for women at the time, Rachel felt like she was positively melting.

Luckily for her, the front door soon opened and Rachel was greeted by Mrs. O'Doyle.

"Miss Roth," Mrs. O'Doyle said, "the others are in the guest parlor. I'll show you in."

The housekeeper ushered Rachel inside the house and into the guest parlor, which was tastefully furnished and sparsely decorated.

On her way into the room, Rachel nearly bumped into the piano that was pushed against the left wall of the room. She managed to dodge it in the nick of time, one should note.

Richard was the first to rise from his seat to greet her – he had been conversing quietly with Stella on a burgundy velvet sofa that lay underneath a fashionable stained-glass window. The two of them had been seated quite closely and yet Richard disentangled himself easily, though not before he pressed a kiss to Stella's cheek in a sentimental gesture of parting (never mind that he wouldn't even be leaving the room).

"Ah, Ms. Roth," Richard said. "I'm glad you've arrived."

Rachel nodded as she removed her hat and set it on the hat rack in the doorway of the parlor.

"I apologize that I was not able to bring the cake for Victor with me today," she said. She gestured to the smaller parcel that she was carrying under one arm. "Nobody sought to consult me beforehand to ensure that I was actually a decent cook. So, I bought Victor a piece of cake from a local bakery. I suppose he shall appreciate that more than whatever monstrosity I had inadvertently created."

Still seated, Stella laughed at this. "Do not worry," she said. "Recall that I was tasked with the baking of those ginger cookies. Ginger snaps, I think they are called. Even with Mrs. O'Doyle showing me how to bake them, I still added too much flour and ginger. They did not turn out very well at all and went straight into the rubbish bin."

Rachel raised her eyebrows at this, saying, "You were here at Sergeant Grayson's house making use of the kitchen?"

Stella blushed, looking bashful. "My apartments do not have such facilities," she said, by way of an excuse. She must have decided to go on record, however, as she added, "But, I have been spending more time with Richard here. We both agreed that if I were to be here more often than not, with just the two of us, perhaps I could learn more about the running of this household."

"I see," Rachel said. Her voice was short. "Well, is there any place in particular you should like me to set down what I've brought?"

Richard pointed to an end table on which two parcels were already resting.

"If you've brought any gifts, they belong there," he said. He then pointed to a side-board that was practically groaning under the weight of cut-china bowls filled with jellies and ice-creams. "You may set the cake for Mr. Stone down there."

Rachel nodded and did so, later taking a seat on a nearby armchair. She pulled a novel out of her purse – _The Two Brothers,_ in the most recent English translation – and set to reading. Seeing as Rachel was not open to any small talk, Richard then rejoined Stella on the sofa and the two began conversing amongst themselves once more.

Not a half-hour had passed before Mrs. O'Doyle reentered the room. She carried a tray of water glasses and came bearing a visitor.

"I hope I'm not too late," the visitor said. This was Victor Stone himself, apologetically holding his cap in his hands and smiling sheepishly. He gestured to the sideboard. "Seems the ice-cream's close to melting."

What a shame that would be, to not enjoy any of Mrs. O'Doyle's famed apricot ice-cream.

The housekeeper merely shrugged and went off to fetch a bucket of ice on which she could place the cut-china glasses to keep the desserts cool. "Why hadn't I thought of that earlier?" one could hear her mutter as she bustled off.

"We're glad you've made it, nonetheless, Mr. Stone," Richard said. "Is Mr. Logan with you? I do not think I saw him in the foyer."

Victor shook his head, glancing over his shoulder as if in hope that Garfield had somehow materialized behind him in the past fifteen seconds.

"No," he said. "I s'ppose he's late; missed the trolley or something. Not much we can do about that except wait."

Rachel rolled her eyes at hearing this, utterly surprised at Garfield's lack of punctuality and it seemed that the others echoed this sentiment.

With a ringing of small bell, Mrs. O'Doyle reentered the guest parlor carrying the bucket of ice she had apparently forgotten, this time accompanied by her daughter, who worked as a maid in the Grayson household and who was carrying a single china plate and silver fork. The younger Miss O'Doyle picked up the cake that Rachel had brought and unwrapped it, plating it on the dish she had brought in a most becoming manner. One could hardly tell that it had been wrapped much like a common piece of meat from the butcher's when she had finished with it! She handed the plate to Victor, who had since sat down in an armchair near Rachel, and demurely said, "Happy birthday, Mr. Stone."

Victor thanked her, although he then looked quizzically at Rachel.

"Ain't there supposed to be a whole cake?" he asked, a bit miffed that he couldn't ask for seconds.

Shrugging, Rachel said wryly, "I'd make a terrible housewife, for I have no skill in the kitchen. I was only able to buy one slice of cake from the bakery at such short notice and you should be grateful I didn't bring my little baking attempt with me."

Victor snorted with laughter at hearing this as he practically inhaled his cake. It was gone within thirty seconds.

As Victor (far too quickly) enjoyed his dessert, Rachel walked over to the bookshelf that lay by the fireplace. She reached down to one of the lower shelves and pulled out a wooden box – a chess set - that, from the looks of the dust gathering on its surface, hadn't been touched in a long while.

"Do you play?" she asked Victor.

Victor's only response was a smug smile and the words, "I haven't yet lost a game."

Rachel doubted that would last any longer and she resolved to put Victor's ego to the test.

"Very well," she said, drawing up a nearby table and setting up the board. "We shall see if you remain the champion at the end of this."

If Victor's smirk could've grown any larger, it would've. "We'll see," he said. And so, the match began. It was over soon enough, as Victor loudly proclaimed that he had once more gone undefeated. Rachel simply huffed in annoyance and demanded that they play again.

They did. Four more times. All in which Rachel lost spectacularly.

"I'll admit it," Rachel said with a small smile, "you play well."

Victor helped her clean up the chess set and put it back on the bookcase before the two of them took their seats once more. While Rachel eagerly returned to her book – she had always enjoyed the works of Balzac – Victor sat there awkwardly, doing little more than twiddling his thumbs in idleness.

After a pregnant silence, Stella spoke.

"It is awfully quiet now," she said. She was currently eating one of the fruit jellies that Mrs. O'Doyle had prepared when she gestured to the piano over which Rachel had nearly tripped earlier. "I regret that I cannot play very well. What about one of you?"

"Don't look at me," Richard said, raising his hands defensively. "The piano came with the house. For all I know, it's never been used."

From the look of its crocheted cover and the layer of dust that rested atop of that, it clearly hadn't been.

Victor admitted that he couldn't play, although he added, "If Garfield was here, I know he'd be able to play something. He's always liked those songs outta Tin Pan Alley."

The room had nearly resigned themselves to sit in silence when Rachel said, "I can."

Clearly the reaction she got was overly skeptical, for she added, "I received lessons back at the orphanage and I occasionally practice on a neighbor's piano. I admit that I am not very talented but I can tap out a tune well enough."

This seemed to satisfy the others and Richard then helped Rachel to take the dustcover off of the piano and to find the piano bench – it had been repurposed as a decorative stool underneath one of the parlor's windows.

"Are there any requests?" Rachel asked. "I cannot guarantee that I will know any of the pieces but I can try."

The other three in the room shook their heads; Richard helped pass around the glasses of ice-cream while they were still relatively frozen, as he had belatedly remembered them. He also knew that Mrs. O'Doyle would feel insulted if she knew that her guests didn't enjoy her culinary efforts.

Clearing her throat, Rachel began to play the piano. There were a few rough patches, but she eventually hit her stride by the end of a relatively simple piece: Schubert's _Allegretto in C Minor_. If she were ever asked, Rachel would place that piece as one of her favorites. She had always liked how it was written for the parting of a dear friend. Rachel could never have called herself sentimental but she appreciated the piece despite that.

She then moved on to a lighter and brighter piece – another one of Schubert's, this time being one of the composer's _Moments Musicaux._ This one she played well, and she had just begun an _Ecossaise_ when there was a great knock at the door. Rachel immediately stopped playing and stood quickly, nearly knocking the piano lid down in her haste.

"Shall someone get the door?" Stella said, also standing up. "Where is Mrs. O'Doyle?"

Richard didn't answer but he instead strode into the foyer and answered the door himself, not wary in the slightest, for he had a suspicion as to who it could be.

That is why, when he opened the door, he said, "Ah, Mr. Logan. We're delighted that you've made it."

Garfield Logan had the good graces to turn a nice vermillion color in his shame. "Heh, yeah," he said, awkwardly laughing as Richard opened the door further and let him in.

When Garfield arrived in the guest parlor, after a few cursory apologies, he looked at Rachel.

"You know, you didn't have to stop playing," he said to her. "I could hear it from down the block. You must like Schubert or somethin'."

Rachel looked at Garfield askance. "I admit that I am surprised you could recognize those pieces."

Garfield shrugged modestly, saying, "I've always liked music – the piano, especially – and I play when I can. And, saying what I said earlier, you must like Schubert or somethin'."

"I do prefer his works over Weber's or Rubenstein's," Rachel said, "although that might be an unpopular opinion and mostly due to the collection of Schubert's works that my neighbor brought over with him from Germany. It isn't as if I keep sheet music around."

Nodding, Garfield acknowledged that this was a fair point. Belatedly, he remembered an envelope he was carrying with him in his jacket pocket. He pulled it out and excitedly handed it over to Victor, who had been regarding this musical exchange with amusement.

"Here, Vic," Garfield said. "It's tickets to the base-ball championship game next Sunday, between Oakland and San Jose, with reserved seats."

As an afterthought, he also added, "I'm sorry, again, for being so late to the party."

Victor brushed this off, saying, "Don't worry about it. It's good that you finally got here, though. Now I can open the gifts that everyone brought for me."

He walked over to the end table and picked up a lumpy parcel wrapped in blue tissue paper.

"Oh, that is from me!" Stella said excitedly, as Victor eagerly tore the paper open. Inside the paper was a knitted cap and matching gloves. By way of explanation, Stella added: "I know that you have found that job as a driver for that doctor. You work during the night and it is almost the winter, so I have made these gloves and this hat for you myself!"

As he held the hat and gloves in front of him, Victor couldn't help but admire the fine detail and care that Stella had put into her work. He thanked her and tucked the gloves inside the hat, placing them both in his jacket pocket.

The next parcel that he reached for was one wrapped in cheap brown paper, addressed from Richard. Inside was a similarly-cheap writing pad. Victor suppressed a grimace as he couldn't help but be slightly disappointed at how impersonal and ill-thought-out this gift was. He'd never thought that Richard could be so stingy. However, Victor always considered himself a largely practical person and he knew that he would use this writing pad nonetheless. He thanked Richard with a tight-lipped smile, although he noticed that Garfield was giving Richard a more overt display of his disappointment. Victor shot Garfield a glare, as if to tell him to desist. Garfield complied.

Lastly, Rachel handed the parcel she had brought with her to Victor.

"It isn't much," she said. "In fact, they're a bit used and full of markings, but I think that you will be able to look past that."

Victor nodded, tearing away the brown grocer's-paper, revealing two worn books, one stacked atop the other.

" _The Mathematical Theory of Electricity and Magnetism._ " He read the title of the first book aloud, before he looked at Rachel in disbelief. "I don't know if I can understand something like this," he said. "I ain't been in school since I was ten or so."

"I cannot understand a single word written in it," Rachel said. "I only finished the eighth grade and I am sure that this is a university-level text. However, I know you've mentioned an interest in physics and engineering before, in passing, and I thought that you should have a book to work towards, so to speak. I've also included a book that you might find a bit more 'on your level.'"

Victor took a look at the second book, placing the first aside. " _Rose's New Arithmetic."_

This second book must have been written in the mid-30s, by the look of it, and Rachel seemed to notice Victor's hesitation, for she said, "I know that the arithmetic is quite old, but I've used it to reinforce what I learned back in school at the orphanage. With my own mathematical knowledge, I suppose I could begin working through a high-school algebra book. Thus, I have no further need for this volume and so, I thought that you might like it. I do quite like how it includes theory as well as applications even for something as simple as sums."

For once, Victor was speechless. "I don't know what to say."

Rachel continued: "If you should like, I can help tutor you, in a way, until we are on the same page. Perhaps, then, we could begin with an algebra text, continuing on through geometry and calculus, until you are able to comprehend the first book. It might be difficult to find a moment of spare time; I work dawn to dusk and you work dusk to dawn most days. But, I do think that we should be able to make time."

Victor stammered out a few words of thanks as Garfield crowed with laughter, saying, "She'll make a college man out of you, yet!"

"I don't know about that," Victor said, eventually. "Imagine a man like me, with two bum legs and no schooling, at a university."

"One can never know," said Richard, who had finally decided to interject into the conversation once more. Perhaps he had been feeling a bit left out. "At that new university, over in Palo Alto that the Stanfords founded last year, I hear they've admitted a man of your – I don't mean to sound rude – skin color. He graduated high school but his father never finished the third grade. Who knows? One day, you could join him. And, besides university, there are always correspondence schools and there's that normal school in San José, if you have any inclination towards teaching."

"Noted," Victor said, as he gave Rachel one last grateful look. He then changed the subject, turning towards Garfield. "You know, you never did explain to us why you were late."

Garfield laughed nervously, wiping his forehead with his felt cap. He seemed to be debating whether or not to tell the truth. From his admission, though, it would be clear he had not told any sort of falsehoods – it was far too embarrassing of a thing to admit.

"I was out at the card tables in a certain district," he said, eventually.

Victor groaned, saying, "Not the Barbary Coast again."

Indignantly, Garfield said, "Hey, I ain't that much of a bum. It was just your average, almost-legal gambling parlor. I'd lost almost all my money at poker – I should've known I'd be awful at it – so I thought I'd try my hand at craps. Turns out I had even less luck there."

This earned a round of uneasy laughter at Garfield's expense from the rest of the group, although Victor was definitely laughing the hardest. Perhaps, reader, this was not an uncommon experience in the life of Garfield Logan.

"I'm serious!" Garfield said, his voice rising in frustration. "When the bouncer found out I was flat broke, he picked a fight with me. I respectfully declined his generous offer but got caught up in the brawl anyway. And sure, I was a fool to lose all my money today, but something seemed off."

"Maybe the dice were weighted?" Victor suggested. "It ain't uncommon, you know."

Garfield brushed this off, saying, "That ain't it. I know weighted dice and these seemed fine. It was the owners of this gambling den. I ain't never seen them be so inverted-"

"'Invested'," Rachel interjected, as if having predicted with supernatural abilities the word that Garfield had originally meant to say.

"-invested with the card tables, if you know what I mean. There was this dame – light red hair and eerily pale skin – who kept hoverin' over me. With her breathing down my neck, I had no chance of winning anything."

"Are you sure you aren't imagining things?" Richard asked. "Perhaps she was just curious as to what you were doing. If you had truly lost so badly as you say, perhaps she wanted to know how such a thing was possible."

Garfield shook his head adamantly. "No, he said. "I know what I felt, even if it ain't much. I could've sworn I've seen that dame around before."

He paused to think for a few moments, before he had a realization: "The parlor down the street. She'd been there, too. I think she must be the owner or something. That dame'd acted like she was the empress of the world. She has to've been the owner of that joint, which is weird, as I could've sworn it used to be run independently by an old man from Hoboken. I don't know how to explain it, but things today just seemed wrong."

"Establishments change hands. It's natural," Richard said.

Once again, Garfield denied this.

"Sure, I lost my money fair and all," he said. "I don't care about that. But, I want to investigate closer. Maybe I can find an undercover gambling ring or somethin'; add a bit of excitement back into our lives. It's been so boring this past year. Nothing's happened! I'm going to take a closer look this week."

Victor rolled his eyes but soon said, "I suppose I'll come with you. I don't want you doing anything stupid like that ever again without me, you hear?"

"Loud and clear," Garfield said. He turned to the rest in the room. "Anyone else want to join?"

Stella and Rachel quickly agreed. To be fair, Stella seemed quite excited to visit a genuine American house of gambling. During her employment within the world's oldest profession, she had never managed to visit one. As for Rachel, she considered such a place to be full of financially-inept fools and considered it beneath her. However, she, along with the others, had grown bored in recent months without as little as an act of petty larceny to keep them occupied. If there was some truth to Garfield's suspicions, maybe Rachel's spare time wouldn't be as lacking, after all.

The only one to refuse was Richard.

"You understand why I cannot take part in this," he said. "To be seen in a second-class female boarding-house is one thing but I, as an officer of the law, cannot be step foot in an establishment so blatantly illegal and corrupt. I left Manhattan to escape those embroiled in the likes of Tammany. I won't lose my position over this."

Of course. This was a reasonable statement to make. The other four were in agreement on this.

"Great!" Garfield said, once they were all in agreement. He quickly set a time and date for their little rendezvous. "Next Thursday should do," was what was suggested. And so, five _Titans_ became four, eager to step down into some tobacco smoke-filled basement in the name of one of Garfield's crackpot intuitions. Hopefully they'd escape with their coin-purses still intact.


	10. Adventures in a Crooked House

From the outside, the building just seemed to be a dingy clapboard tenement with three stories chock-full of the virtues and vices of San Francisco. Sure, Billy "Two-Fists" from the first floor was menacing enough, wielding his brass knuckles as others do their wedding rings, and old Mrs. John Mulcahey, formerly Mrs. Nick Aarons, from the attic was rumored to have done her spouses in with a wooden nickel's worth of carbolic acid, but the two Reynolds boys and a handful of friends were playing stickball by the stoop and Mary Fischer was currently trying to dress a little kitten in a frilly lace bonnet in the main hallway. Nothing made this particular address stand out from any of the other clapboard houses on the street except for the vague odor of acrid smoke and the off-key strains of "Daisy Bell" coming from the basement. That would, of course, be the den of iniquity in which Garfield Logan had previously lost all of his savings.

Inside this basement were gathered the four members of our intrepid little group. Victor Stone and Garfield Logan were currently seated at two separate card tables, each trying their hands at poker. From Victor's hunched-over posture to Garfield's look of utter dejection, it was clear that neither of the two of them were doing well.

After folding far too soon for his liking, Garfield stood up from his table and bowed theatrically, taking the cigarette out of his mouth as he did so.

"Goodbye, fellas!" he said, jovially. "Enjoy the two bits from me."

His coin-purse had grown too light too quickly so he made his way over to the makeshift bar – it was merely an old carpenter's workbench with a couple of bottles and steins thrown on top – to cool off for a bit. He shuddered as he drew the lone nickel from his pocket and placed it on the bar, sliding it over to the stony-faced and handlebar-mustachioed man who seemed to be in control of the drinks.

"Hope this can buy me a beer," Garfield said, his throat growing dry in apprehension

The barkeep nodded.

 **oOo**

Across the room, Rachel was standing pressed up against the grimy wall. She sighed in disinterest, trying to ignore how much soot and grease was undoubtedly transferring to her jacket by the minute. Well, she reasoned, perhaps after she removed herself from her position, the other patrons of this establishment would be able to see whether the walls were papered with scrolls, florals, or stripes. She had little patience for all of these games of chance and tricks of the light masquerading as measures of skill. It was all a show of masculine pride, in her opinion. That would explain why a brawny man with the bushiest ginger sideburns she had ever seen had very nearly flipped over a table when he lost. Either he had a hair-trigger temper or he had not been expecting to lose a simple craps game. Perhaps, it was both.

"Flynn, are you having any trouble over there?" a saccharine voice called.

Rachel turned her head ever so slightly, thankful that her tilted wool hat obscured part of her face from any onlookers, to see a red-headed woman – her light hair color courtesy of some peddler's bottle of dye, no doubt – in a filmy black and purple gown drift over to the upset man.

That man, Flynn, nodded mutely as the woman patted him soothingly on the head. She leant closer to his ear and whispered something that Rachel couldn't quite make out, before standing straight once more and announcing to the other players at Flynn's table in a joking tone that, if they would cause her dear Barnard to lose so spectacularly again, they'd "find themselves thrown out on their asses." A charming woman, surely.

 _Barnard Flynn,_ Rachel mouthed to herself. She'd have to remember that name.

The red-headed woman, however, caught sight of Rachel at this very moment. She frowned, as if realizing that she was being watched, and soon was at Rachel's side. Rachel tried to avert her gaze and act nonchalant but it was all in vain.

"You aren't playing, Miss-" she said, waiting for Rachel to supply her name.

"Rachel," came the curt response.

"Miss Rachel, then," she continued. She adopted a look of concern although it looked more to be of patronization than anything else. "Is there any reason in particular you aren't joining the rest of us?"

 _Perhaps you think yourself better than the rest of us,_ was what she left unsaid.

Rachel merely crossed her arms and said, "Forgive me. I've had a long day."

She absentmindedly rubbed her fingers together, feeling the new calluses and nicks from hand-sewing women's flannel skirts for nearly twelve hours. It had, indeed, been a very long day. When she saw that her inquisitor giving her a look as if to press her further, she added, "I've always preferred to watch these others make fools of themselves. I'd rather not participate and lose what little money I have."

The other woman gave Rachel a petulant frown, although a grin crept its way in. "Well, what a big, old stick-in-the-mud you are. As proprietor of this place, it's within my power to say that, if you want to stay here, you actually have to do something. Dice, cards, drink. Anything. Show an ankle and you might get a bottle of beer for free!"

Arching an eyebrow in response, Rachel said, "I'd rather not use your weighted dice or your marked cards and I've never developed a taste for the turpentine you call beer. Forgive me, Miss Proprietress, but I think I shall respectfully decline such a generous offer."

"Big words from a girl like you - garment worker, perhaps? Perhaps you aren't sure what you want yet." The proprietress' grin turned absolutely feral as she replied, "Call me Jenny Jenkins, Rachel. Us women need to stick together in places such as these."

Before Rachel could properly react, Jenny reached out, capturing her wrist with a vice-like grip, and tugged her towards a game of craps that appeared to be watched over by a diminutively-sized man.

"This is Michael O'Callaghan," Jenny said into Rachel's ear. "He's a dear old associate of mine and he'll be in charge of you as you play."

Rachel made move to protest – "Play?" she wanted to shout indignantly – especially when O'Callaghan leered at her and a couple of the other men around crowed drunkenly in appreciation, but Jenny's grip on her wrist grew only tighter.

"I wouldn't advise leaving just yet," Jenny said. "You haven't played a single game and this is a parlor meant for entertainment, after all."

Swallowing hard, Rachel glanced at her surroundings. Most of it was unremarkable and she tried not to grimace. She avoided looking at the exit but instead focused on studying Michael O'Callaghan's features, committing them to memory much like she had done with Barnard Flynn a few minutes earlier. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Jenny take something out of the leather purse that she carried.

Jenny must've seen this quick glance, for she waved the small cardboard box she held in her spare hand in front of Rachel's face.

"New dice just for you, Rachel. Nothing to be afraid of," she said. She handed the box to Rachel, having since let go of the other woman's wrist. "No unfair advantages for the other players and no unfair advantages for you. I'll even let you open the box yourself and you can start this next game."

Rachel grimaced in response but complied. She took out the dice, selected two of them, testing them in her hands. They felt odd, though she never really had any experience before with dice. Remembering that the proprietress was watching her like a hawk, she chose to ignore this revelation, and instead looked up at all the cigar-smoking, second-hand suit-wearing men around her.

"Well, gentlemen," she said, her voice raspy from the tobacco smoke that pervaded the room, grateful to see Jenny Jenkins slip away from her to undoubtedly harass someone else, "it would seem as if I'm rolling first. Let's say we start with a half-dollar."

Rachel placed two bits on the table and then, slowly, another two more, but the other men were hesitant to match her bet.

"Aw, come off it, you pigeon-livered girls," Michael O'Callaghan said, standing up (not that that did much by way of intimidation). "You afraid to lose to some broad or somethin'?"

While Rachel kept silent at being called a "broad," she still managed to glare menacingly at Michael O'Callaghan. He merely grinned in response and motioned his head to the ever-growing pot. It would seem as if the other players resented being called "pigeon-livered" enough to start placing their bets. Noted.

The game started very quickly after that and Rachel had to bite back a groan as she rolled the dice. Hopefully this game would be over soon.

 **oOo**

By this time, Victor Stone had since grown tired of consistently losing. He'd never thought himself particularly skilled at poker and he wasn't about to make a fool of himself at the craps table, but to lose so much money in quite a short amount of time was just embarrassing. Even with his job later that evening, for he still worked as a carriage-driver for a doctor during the night, he wouldn't be able to recuperate what he'd lost today for another week or so. Sighing in defeat, much like Garfield had done earlier, Victor thanked the other "gentlemen" at the card table before making his way elsewhere.

He chose to join Stella who, currently, was playing poker. From the looks of it, she was on her way to winning. One of the men gathered around the card table merely to watch elbowed Victor in his side and muttered under his breath that he could "hardly believe that a high-class dame could be so good at cards." Victor only nodded in response, despite his own disbelief, preferring to keep an eye on Stella, who had come straight to the gambling parlor from her secretarial job complete in a tweed jacket a fur-trimmed collar and a matching skirt and didn't fit in in the slightest.

His supervision wasn't really required, however, for at that moment, the three remaining players lay their cards down on the table and grumbled in defeat.

Stella shouted in delight as she accepted the pile of coins from the center of the table, saying gleefully, "I believe that is what is called 'four of a kind'?"

Victor didn't miss that as Stella funneled her winnings into a small change-purse that she picked out a ring of some sort and slid it back onto the appropriate finger.

Four of a kind, indeed.

At the bar, Garfield was currently drinking his beer. There was no other word for that action, for "enjoying" was being far too generous. It really was just like turpentine but, then again, he'd paid for it; he'd wasted enough money over the course of the last hour as it was. He looked at the basement around him, trying to keep an eye on his three companions of the evening. It wasn't the easiest task, as the room appeared to be filled with a crush of human bodies that reeked of sweat and smoke and San Francisco, but he eventually located all three of them. Victor and Stella were at a card table and Rachel seemed to be playing craps.

Garfield snickered at this. He'd never considered Rachel for a craps-player; someone must've had to peel her off the wallpaper to get her to join in any sort of game. He made a mental note to mention this to her later, before he drained his beer and began to pull himself away from the bar.

The red-headed woman from the last time chose that moment to walk up to Garfield, the train of her dress somehow avoiding catching on all the splinters and knobs of the roughshod hardwood floor.

"I see you've returned to my establishment," she said. Her tone was casual. However, she was anything but. "I don't like having such pathetic men around this place. It makes me and my men look bad."

Garfield didn't respond for a moment, although he ended up blurting out: "I thought this joint was owned by a man from Hoboken."

It would seem that Garfield Logan was not the most well-versed in espionage, reader, as one can surmise. He did have some modicum of self-awareness, it should be noted, as he grimaced as soon as the words left his mouth. Not that it did much, anyway.

Jenny Jenkins laughed at his expense before flippantly waving a hand and mentioning that the old man had thought it a good time to retire (never mind that the former owner was only forty-seven years of age and had not even begun to think of retiring).

"Right," Garfield drawled, clearly unconvinced.

Seeing that her client was not placated by her excuses, Jenny lost the fake smile in the blink of an eye. She repeated her words from earlier.

"I see you've returned to my establishment."

Garfield shrugged, saying, "What's it to you, lady? I'm improving your business. Can't hurt, right?"

"And, you've brought reinforcements."

Garfield offered up some excuse about the others providing "moral and spiritual support" in his suffering before trailing off and mumbling incoherently.

"No, I don't think that's it." Jenny drew closer to Garfield until she grabbed him by the collar. It wasn't starched so the good Mr. Logan was spared any serious injury. What a pity, she surely must've thought. "Are you a copper, Mr. Logan?"

"What? No!" Garfield said, startled that this woman knew his name and slightly insulted at her insinuation. Surely, he wasn't so drunk as to have mentioned it offhandedly, right? He wasn't that much of a lightweight. As if realizing his mistake, he attempted to force a crooked smile, gesturing to himself and his ratty clothes. "Do I look like I could be a one? I'm flattered, honestly, but no, I ain't some copper on his beat."

He laughed nervously, trying to slip his way away from the bar and away from the proprietress. She still held steadfast to his collar, though, so he choked and gagged something awful. He definitely looked like an idiot, all blotchy red and purple in the face. That's what he would get for inadvertently strangling himself.

Taking pity on the poor man in front of her, Jenny abruptly let go of Garfield's collar, causing the man to fall flat on the floor. Garfield yelped – almost daintily - knocking his head against the bar as he did so. Jenny crouched down beside him, sneering. "Take care not to return, Mr. Logan. If you do, I'll ensure you lose much more than your month's wages."

 _Joke's on you,_ Garfield thought, _I lost much more than that._

She gave him a disdainful look as if to say, "Now, go!" and that was the last of it.

Garfield obliged, standing up as fast as he could despite the fact that his head was still spinning. He only tripped a handful of times as he attempted to run over to the others.

"Hey, Rachel," he said, arriving at that the table where Rachel was playing.

She looked up at him curiously, and then rolled the dice once more. _Six._ It was neither the nine she'd first rolled nor a seven, so she and the other bettors around her each handed another two bits over to Michael O'Callaghan. She made a move to roll again when Garfield intercepted and grabbed her wrist.

"Don't," he said. "It was suggested to me that we get outta here."

Rachel nodded and was about to set the dice down when Michael O'Callaghan said, "Aha, if you leave the game, you leave the money."

This caused Rachel to grimace, more so because she had never wanted to bet anything in the first place, although she then motioned for those around her to accept their own shares of the betting pool. She turned to Garfield and wryly said, "Well, that was a complete waste of over four dollars."

"Four bucks? Aw, that's nothing," Garfield laughed as he led her over to where Victor and Stella were. It was easier for those other two to leave their game, although Stella had just lost most of what she had won earlier. Her hands were repeatedly one pair and that wasn't worth much at all.

On their way out, the four found themselves with an escort consisting of Barnard Flynn who, apparently, was both a temperamental cards-player and the establishment's bouncer. He practically threw them all out by their ears, but not without a final parting remark.

"Don't come back or old Slade will know."

And then, he shut the basement door in their faces.

 **oOo**

"Well," Garfield said, once the four of them had returned to the street. They congregated awkwardly on the sidewalk, both unsure of themselves and confident that they had learned something from this little adventure, "I ain't never been in a den as crooked as this. Never thought I'd miss that miser from Jersey; he was a right peach compared to that creepy broad who took over. It's like she could see everything that went on in there. She must've been some sort of witch or something, especially with how she moved. I mean, did you see her walk? Did you ever hear her come up to you?"

Victor mumbled something about how that is one thing that woman and Rachel Roth have in common.

Rachel glared at Victor although she didn't respond directly to his teasing. "Jenny Jenkins," she said. At the quizzical look of her companions, she added, "That's the name of the proprietress. Jenkins. Her two hired hands are apparently Barnard Flynn – the bouncer – and Michael O'Callaghan. I'm sure there were others present but I didn't catch their names nor did I see them."

"However many there were," Victor said, "they seemed to run a tight ship. Everything was rigged and Ms. Jenkins clearly had all the tables under her control."

Nodding, Rachel said, "The dice Ms. Jenkins gave me were clearly weighted to never fall on sevens. She had told me they weren't weighted but I suspected otherwise since anyone can tamper with a cardboard box. As she forced me to roll first, I could have played for up to another hour. It was only by chance I didn't roll any nines."

Garfield's tone was one of disbelief as he said, "Where'd they teach you to play craps? The orphanage?"

Rachel rolled her eyes and replied dryly, "The Roman Catholic Orphan Asylum of San Francisco would never stoop to such low levels, Mr. Logan, as to promote vice and gambling. I assure you that I'm a quick learner; nothing more."

The others looked at her in disbelief but she assured them this was the truth.

"They sure screwed me over, anyhow," Garfield said. He gestured to Stella. "The only one of us who won anything at all was Ms. Feuerstein over here and she still ended up losing it all."

Victor nodded, asking Stella, "Hey, what was it with that ring? Did you win that or something?"

Stella smiled enigmatically, twisting it on her finger. She took off the ring, which was a simple gold band with six diamonds and an outline of olivine arranged in a charming floral shape mounted in the center, and briefly showed it to the others. It must've cost nearly seventy dollars.

"Richard and I have become engaged," she said as she placed the ring on her left-hand ring finger. "He proposed marriage to me this past Saturday, before the party, although I chose not to wear the ring until after everyone had left. I do apologize for not mentioning it before and I regret that one of the men at the card table had seen it – I had forgotten to remove it this morning – and had coerced me into wagering it. Obviously, I then won it back."

She was met with silence. A long one, at that.

"You're engaged." The words were slow and halting, spoken by Rachel. "You're engaged to Sergeant Grayson."

It was a statement, not a question, to which Stella merely nodded.

"Congratulations?" Garfield said, he sounded unsure. He seemed to realize his rudeness and quickly added, "It's just a bit sudden, I think."

"Thank you so very much," Stella replied to Garfield with a polite tilt of her head.

Victor similarly offered up his congratulations, to which Stella also responded. Rachel, it should be noted, curiously chose to remain silent, although she smiled tensely at Stella when the other woman gazed expectantly at her.

The tension between the four people was broken when Stella took a deep breath and said, "Forgive me, friends, for not telling you about our engagement earlier. Furthermore, I apologize if it seems to be quite sudden, for Richard and I do not see it that way. We have known each other for…" here, she paused, lost in thought "…two years, I think, it has been. That is not too short a time, is it?"

"I s'ppose not," Garfield said.

Stella blushed gracefully, adding, "We have not yet set a date for the wedding. That is why we have not sent out any of the invitations to let all of our friends and acquaintances know about our engagement. I apologize once again for this mistake."

Victor was the one to wave this off, saying, "There ain't no harm done. Besides, we're here tonight for something more urgent than Miss Feuerstein's engagement news: have we already forgotten that we've learned someone's behind that whole gambling den?"

"Yeah!" Garfield cut in. "That Slade person. D'you reckon that's his last name?"

The other three thought for a bit.

"From what I know," Rachel said, ending her silence, "the name 'Slade' only occurs as a surname. I've never heard it used as a Christian name."

This earned her some curious looks from her compatriots, causing her to take on a defensive stance. Thus, Rachel stood with her arms folded and her chin jutting out in a petty show of surety.

"And you know this how?" Garfield was the one to ask this, sidling up to Rachel and attempting to look her straight in the eye. She ignored his close proximity, turning her body away towards one of the looming street-lamps that cast a yellow-orange glow over the cobblestones. "Could it be that Rachel Roth knows more than she's letting on?"

Rachel glared at Garfield, causing the man to flinch and unconsciously find refuge at Victor's side.

"No," she said tersely, shaking her head firmly to further reinforce her absolute denial of Garfield's accusation. "I assembled ledgers – such as the ones used in shops – one summer for two and a half cents per hour, mostly sewing together the pages but occasionally cutting the paste-board covers. One of our returning customers, for we intended the ledgers for large-scale distribution, was a company owned – or partially-owned – by a man named 'Slade'. I'd completely forgotten the name until now. It's been nearly a decade since that summer, but I suppose that hearing the name has reminded me. It isn't as if it is a common surname, after all."

Shoving a still-cowering Garfield from his side, Victor asked, "Do you remember what this company did?"

Rachel shook her head, saying that it had been almost ten years since she heard that trivial information, although she did suggest that they mention this possible connection to Richard when they reported to him as soon as was possible.

The date of when Richard would call for a meeting of the _Titans_ was still up in the air and there was very little that the four could do that evening, especially as Stella reached into some hidden pocket in her skirt to pull out a delicate watch engraved with vines and a little sparrow.

"It is nearing nine o'clock," she said. She closed the watch and placed it back in her skirt. "It is quite late for me to return to the Westmoreland alone but I suppose, if I hurry, I shall arrive back to my rooms without much comment from any of the other hotel residents."

She was about to say her goodbyes when Victor muttered a curse under his breath.

"Is something wrong, Mr. Stone?" Stella asked, her voice pleasant despite the flush brought to her cheeks upon hearing such profanities.

Victor offered an apology, explaining that he had "to be at work in half an hour."

Mollified, Stella accepted his apology and assured him that, as his workplace and her hotel were both located on Sutter Street, they could walk to Market and then up Stockton Street to the block where his workplace was located, before Stella would take the streetcar over to the Westmoreland. The two of them beat a hasty retreat after that, leaving Garfield and Rachel still far too close for comfort to the gambling den. Night was creeping ever closer and the seamier side of San Francisco was beginning to make its way onto the streets.

 **oOo**

"So," Garfield said after a few moments of silence, evidently only interested in looking down at his hands and not at the woman he had been left with, "I'm awful hungry. I ain't eaten supper yet but I'm flat broke. How 'bout you?"

Rachel rolled her eyes but said, "I've not eaten, either. If I don't return home by half-past seven, my landlady won't serve me anything."

Garfield made a move to protest at this injustice but Rachel interrupted him by holding her hand up.

"It's fine, Mr. Logan," she said. "This isn't the first time I've gone to bed hungry. Besides, I had a bit of bread and jam, along with a pickle, for lunch at work earlier. It isn't as if I am starving on the streets."

This was reasonable and Garfield had no wish to argue further with Rachel. So, he said, "Well, you might be fine but I think I'm gonna faint or somethin'." His stomach made a noise as if to agree. "Is there any place nearby to eat?"

"44 4th Street," Rachel said without any hesitation. "You can get a hamburger steak, stew, pudding, and coffee for only ten cents."

Garfield huffed in frustration at hearing this.

"I'm a vegetarian," he said, crossing his arms. "I don't eat any meat or anything like that since my adoptive parents are Seventh-Day Adventists."

Rolling her eyes once more, Rachel said, "Right. I'll have to keep that in mind." Her tone was only mildly sarcastic but Garfield bristled anyway. So, she added, "You could also get two eggs, mush and milk, potatoes, bread and butter, and coffee there for the same price. Ten cents."

Laughing, Garfield elbowed Rachel in the side – though Rachel clearly resented this overtly-familiar gesture and took a step away from him – and said, "You sound like a menu, Rachel. How'd you know so much about this place, anyhow?"

"I read the classifieds section of the newspaper," was all Rachel said before she practically dragged Garfield to the restaurant in question.

 **oOo**

The restaurant at 44 4th Street was much like others of its class: meant for the working-man, it had sawdust floors, grease-stained wallpaper, and a menu of bland-yet-dependable dishes written on chalkboards scattered around the main dining-room. One could find its fare of boiled vegetables, tough beefsteaks, and shudder-inducing coffee at any eatery in the United States, uninspiring and barely mediocre, yet enough to tide a man over until the next meal or the next paycheck. Just as Garfield stepped through the front door, for Rachel had chosen to stay on the street outside, a waiter regretfully told him that they were due to close at nine o'clock, in seven minutes, and that they were no longer seating any patrons. Garfield was about to leave in order to mope about his lack of a supper on the street when the waiter motioned him over and said, softly, "You can go 'round back to the kitchens and get something to eat there if you hurry. You'll have to stand though."

Garfield laughed loudly, startling the waiter. "I'll stand if it means I get some supper!" he said, before thanking the waiter and sprinting back outside.

Rachel saw this little bit of theatricality through the streaky front window of the establishment and was about to ask what had happened when Garfield shushed her and grabbed her wrist, pulling her around the block to arrive at the back of the restaurant. There, a door was open, evidently leading to the kitchens, and the sounds of dishes being washed and pots being thrown about could be heard.

Rachel yanked her wrist out of Garfield's grasp when they finally stopped.

"What was that about?" she asked, rubbing where he had held her. "Are you going to eat or not?"

Garfield was about to run straight towards the kitchens when he stopped, realizing something. He sheepishly turned towards Rachel and said, "I forgot. I ain't got enough money on me for even a bread roll."

As if to further his point, he patted his pockets and even took off his cap, turning it upside-down to show how empty it was.

"God, give me patience," Rachel said, notably lacking any patience whatsoever, as she took a dime out of her coin-purse and thrust it into Garfield's hand. "Use this or don't. Just go, quickly, before you don't get anything even though you can pay."

"Thanks, Rachel!" Garfield said, with a smile as he bounded off into the restaurant's kitchens. Just before he disappeared from view, he added, "Hey, Rachel, don't disappear on me! Let me walk you home. I'll be out in a bit."

Rachel inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment before contenting herself to stand around for the next five or ten minutes.

True to his word, Garfield arrived by Rachel's side a little more than six minutes later, carrying something wrapped in brown paper. As the two of them walked towards Rachel's home, he regaled her with a lengthy tale of his meal: a veritable feast of cold potatoes, vegetable broth in an old jam-jar as none of the wait-staff wanted to wash him a bowl and they told him to just keep the jar, and some bread and butter. Apparently, the place was out of coffee but they offered Garfield all that food for only a nickel, so that made it all worth it in the end.

"And one of the waiters recognized me from when we were dishwashers together at some hash-house three years ago, so he gave me this," Garfield said, as he pushed the paper-wrapped parcel into Rachel's arms.

Rachel gave him a questioning look to which he responded, "It's a pie. I dunno what kind, though. A whole pie for another nickel, he says. I felt bad that you gave me a whole dime despite not eating anything tonight yourself. And, I know dames like you ain't usually let into restaurants or whatever. So, I bought you a pie."

Garfield's face fell slightly when Rachel didn't immediately respond, so he added, "You could always give the pie to your landlady if you don't want it, y'know."

This seemed to startle Rachel out of whatever stupor she had fallen into, for she very quickly thanked him, grateful to notice that they had arrived at her lodgings.

"Good night, Mr. Logan," Rachel said, her voice cool and even.

"G'night, Rachel," Garfield replied. He grinned at her and, perhaps if he had been bolder that night, he would have kissed her cheek in parting.

Merely rolling her eyes yet again that night, Rachel didn't say anything further. Instead, she walked up her front stoop and unlocked the main door in utter silence. Just before she stepped inside the hallway, she turned to look behind her, only to see that Garfield had already begun his walk home. She smiled softly to herself and continued to make her way to her room.

Her landlady, Mrs. Feinsohn had been grateful for the pie, which turned out to be made with a filling of stewed green apples, and didn't question that some of it was missing.

Rachel retreated to her room and sat on her narrow bed, a small china plate laying in her lap. As she read a bit of Jessie Fothergill's "The First Violin," squinting in the dim lighting of the oil lamp by her bedside, she savored a thin slice of that apple pie.


	11. The Sergeant Who Plays the Fool

It was eleven o'clock on the dot when there was a great knocking on the front door of Richard Grayson's Pacific Heights home. Of course, said man could not hear said knocking as he was deep in conversation with his fiancée in the library which was, it should be noted, quite far from the front door. The two inamorati were seated closely, though separately, by Richard's large mahogany desk. Stella took the wicker easy chair while Richard took an unupholstered side chair. Such an arrangement allowed the two of them to bend their heads closely towards each other and to speak in the delicate whispers that only those in love are capable of using. Richard whispered something into Stella's ear, causing her to blush and smile prettily. He made a move to kiss her, perhaps on the cheek, perhaps on the neck, when a quick rapping at the library door startled them and forced the two lovers apart.

 **oOo**

"Sergeant Grayson, sir," called Mrs. O'Doyle, the housekeeper, through the library door, "there's three people here to see you: Mr. Stone, Mr. Logan, and Ms. Roth."

Richard groaned softly to himself, for he had been enjoying his little intimate conversation with Stella immensely. He pressed a quick kiss to Stella's cheek as he stood, dodging a wastebasket overflowing with crumpled-up papers and a haphazard pile of books as he made his way to the door, before opening it.

"I'll be right there, Mrs. O'Doyle," he said, unconsciously smoothing down his hair and his collar so as to appear calm and collected in front of his housekeeper. It wouldn't do for him to instead resemble a love-struck schoolboy caught on a park bench with some slip of a girl. "Please tell the visitors to wait in the guest-parlor. Ms. Feuerstein and I will join them in less than a minute."

"Of course, Sergeant," Mrs. O'Doyle said, before she made her way back down the main hall in a flurry of starched ruffles and sprigged calico flounces.

Sighing, Richard stepped back inside the library, closing the door behind him and resisting the urge to lock it and to throw away the key. He sheepishly looked at Stella, who was sitting primly in that wicker chair, a long-forgotten novel in her lap.

"Well, it seems as if we must rejoin the others," he said, as he walked up beside Stella, picking up one of her hands and pressing a tender kiss to the back of it.

"If we must," Stella said, coyly, as she set aside her novel and stood.

The two shared one quick kiss before they exited the library and arrived in the guest parlor.

There, they came across Victor, Garfield, and an unamused-looking Rachel, the three of whom had taken their seats in various armchairs around the parlor.

"Good morning, Sergeant," Rachel said, "and Ms. Feuerstein."

Richard and Stella offered their greetings in return.

"Congratulations on your upcoming nuptials, Sergeant," Rachel continued.

Richard felt his face heat momentarily. "Ah, so you know," he said.

All that he received from Rachel in response was a nod. So, feeling as if he had to continue this particular conversation, even if he really shouldn't have, he then added, "Ms. Roth, that's a handsome ensemble you're wearing today. I don't think I've seen you wear anything that..."

Rachel smiled sardonically at Richard, looking down briefly at her plum-colored walking suit, before practically interrupting him as she said, "Nice, perhaps? I was accosted by these two-" here, she pointed to Garfield and Victor "- as I was leaving church this morning in a repeat of a previous incident. While I normally would have been inclined to ignore the two of them and carry on with my day, for I was eagerly anticipating an afternoon spent with Eugène Sue's _The Mysteries of Paris_ , they showed me a telegram you had sent earlier this morning requesting that we meet with you. How could I refuse? Mr. Stone alerted me to the fact that, if we hurried, we would arrive here with a half-hour to spare before the eleven o'clock the telegram specified. Of course, Mr. Logan, on our way over here, found himself distracted by an impromptu boxing-match in an alley just off of Leavenworth. Had Mr. Stone and I not dragged him along, he surely would have watched a few rounds and placed a few bets. Either way, we were nearly late and thus, there was no time for me to return home to my flat to change into more appropriate tire. What I wear now, Sergeant, is therefore my Sunday best. I assume you are familiar with the concept?"

Richard had the good graces to blush as he nodded.

"And, even if this particular ensemble is three or four years out of date," Rachel continued, "as I am sure Stella could tell you, it is, in fact, the one 'nice' outfit that I possess."

No one quite knew what to say to this, as there had only been a handful of times previously in which Rachel had been so verbose. Thankfully, Richard was spared from having to salvage any sort of response from his scrambled wits by the arrival of Mrs. O'Doyle with a cart laden with various fancies and savories, along with a silver tea service.

"Here's Mrs. O'Doyle with some light refreshments," Richard said, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat in embarrassment and decided, wisely, to keep silent for a bit with the help of a cup of tea and a slice of ginger cake.

Stella helped herself to the culinary delights of Mrs. O'Doyle, taking a small porcelain plate and covering it with cheese and walnut puff-paste tarts, butter and jam sandwiches, fresh fruits, and a sort of chocolate Bavarian filled with chestnut jelly. She looked around and saw that Victor and Garfield were of the same mindset as her, although Victor had enough sandwiches for three people on his plate and Garfield seemed mostly to be fixating on dessert. She turned her gaze towards Rachel only to see that the other woman only had a cup of tea.

"Do you not wish to partake in any of the food?" Stella asked Rachel. "Perhaps some of these raspberries or stuffed dates?"

Rachel shook her head, raising her teacup both in a gesture of salutation and to say that what she had was enough.

Frowning slightly, Stella was about to say more when she noticed that Victor and Garfield had finished their food and wandered over to the piano. "Oh, they are playing music! Forgive me, Rachel, for I think that I shall join them."

"Feel free," Rachel said.

Stella looked at her gratefully before setting her plate down and practically running over to the piano.

 **oOo**

"O.K., any requests from my lovely audience?" Garfield said with a laugh as he looked at Victor and Stella, the two of whom stood beside the upright piano. "I'm tired of playing 'Daisy Bell' and 'After the Ball' but anything else goes!"

Victor was quick to suggest "Eileen," a song that quite fit his vocal range, being meant for bass. Garfield indulged him, playing the triplet chords a bit unevenly and with all the wrong dynamics (in his defense, he said, he only heard the song a couple of times and caught a glimpse of the sheet music in some dance hall once, that's all), but the two of them had a grand old time nonetheless.)

"Might you know 'The Idol of My Heart'?" Stella asked, clasping her hands to her chest in hope.

Garfield nodded with a grin. "Sure, I do!" he said, before the overly-sentimental and quite melancholy song began.

Stella had a lovely voice, that much was clear, as she sang of a past lover and bittersweet recollections, and only the occasional mispronunciations could have spoiled the performance. As Stella sang, she let her gaze wander over to where Richard was nursing his tea and, as soon as her song was over, she requested one more.

" _Ev'rybody has a sweetheart underneath the rose_ ," she sang, smiling sweetly when Richard caught her eye and then bashfully ducked his head. " _Ev'rybody loves a body, so the old song goes. I've a sweetheart, you all know him, just as well as me. Ev'ry ev'ning, I can see him shortly after tea._ "

She began the chorus thereafter:

" _My sweetheart's the man in the moon. I'm going to marry him soon. 'Twould fill me with bliss, just to give him one kiss, but I know that a dozen I never would miss. I'll go up in a great big balloon, and see my sweetheart in the moon. Then, behind some dark cloud, where no one is allow'd, I'll make love to the man in the moon."_

Instead of continuing on with the second verse, Stella instead chose to dash over to where Richard was sitting, on their preferred loveseat, embracing him and kissing him softly on the cheek. Such a tender moment, naturally, was only interrupted slightly by the whistles and cheers of Garfield and Victor, but Richard and Stella merely ignored them, before embracing once more.

The parlor music took on a lighter tone after that, as Stella had decided to take a break from singing in order to converse with Richard and Rachel, and as Victor and Garfield preferred the more comic output of Tin-Pan Alley. Thus, the guest parlor was filled with the strains of "Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay", "Miss Dooley's Dancing-School", and "Everybody Takes His Hat Off to Me," until Garfield stepped away from the piano, wringing his hands and claiming that he must've tired them out "or somethin'."

Now finished with her cup of tea and deeply regretting that she had not had the foresight to bring a book with her, Rachel offered to entertain the others briefly.

"I don't know more than a handful of pieces," she warned, as she took her seat at the piano. "There are only so many that I have memorized."

This warning had no effect on her audience, so she played a couple of scales before cycling through the Schubert pieces she had played the week before. Those were over all too quickly and still the others made no move to usurp her place at the piano, so she moved on to works by other composers. A handful of Mendelssohn-Bartholdy's easier Songs without Words, such as those called, in a particular published edition, "Confidence", "Song of Triumph", and "Spring Song," followed suit, along with the fragments of an étude by Hummel; this was the end of Rachel Roth's repertoire. She stood from the piano and excused herself, making move to sit back down in her armchair, although Richard interrupted her.

"You may look through that basket over there," he said, pointing just to the right of the piano bench. "Like the piano, the sheet music in there came with the house when I purchased it. Perhaps there is something in there with which you are acquainted."

Rachel nodded and went over to that basket of sheet-music. Most of it was not to her taste, such as the Czerny or the Rubenstein, or was far too difficult for her skill level, such as the Liszt, or was unfamiliar to her, such as the Handel. However, one particular folio caught her eye.

" _R. Schumann's Vocal Album_ ," she read aloud, flipping through the pages. One of the pieces caught her eye, although, upon closer look, she noticed that she'd need a singer to accompany her.

"Stella?" Rachel asked, turning towards the other woman. "Would you like to sing this _lied_ while I accompany you on the piano? I cannot say that I am immediately familiar with the piece, but it seems relatively easy enough for me to play and the melody shouldn't be too hard."

"Of course," Stella said, as she joined Rachel at the piano. " _'Schöne Wiege meiner Leiden_ '?"

Rachel nodded, as she played the melody a few times over for Stella to properly understand the contours of the music, before transitioning into the accompaniment proper.

The playing was a bit rough to begin with, especially once Rachel arrived at the key change. However, the two of them stumbled through the _lied_ enough that, by the final refrain, it was almost as if they had performed it together in the past.

"... _schöne Stadt, wir müssen scheiden. Lebe wohl, lebe wohl!_ "

A polite round of applause rippled throughout the parlor, only interrupted by one of Garfield's many unintentionally-insensitive comments.

"That was swell," he said, as he walked up to the piano, "although I didn't understand a single word of it."

Rachel rolled her eyes and grabbed the sheet music, thrusting it into Garfield's hands.

"Here," she said, in doing so. "I trust that you can read well enough to locate the English translation? If you don't understand one of the lines, you're most likely reading the German."

Garfield brushed off this caustic remark, instead taking the sheet music and setting it aside. He gestured to Rachel's seat on the piano bench.

"Actually, Rachel," he said, "I was wondering if I could take another turn at the piano. Your German art song reminded me of a piece I once accompanied a girl on. Swell actress, she was. Used to know her when she sang at one of the vaudeville halls here. I remember learning to play the accompaniment for her 'cause I wanted to impress her, y'know. Of course, she ended up marryin' some strongman and I hear they have three kids together in Buffalo together."

Throughout this litany of Garfield's own personal life, Rachel sat unmoving, barely able to keep her patience.

"Are you quite finished?" she finally asked, at length. "I didn't need to hear your history or this woman's history. If you had just asked me if you could play something, I would have let you."

"Right," Garfield said, a bit shame-faced. "Sorry."

Rachel accepted his apology and stood from the piano bench.

"What is the name of the piece, then?" she asked.

Garfield had to wrack his brain for a few painful moments before saying, "I dunno, exactly. It was originally something by Schubert, I think, in German. But, in English, it's called 'Thine is My Heart.'"

"'Thine is My Heart'?" Rachel repeated, mulling the name of this song over for a bit. "'Dein ist mein Herz' would be the German translation of that, I suppose."

Shrugging, Garfield said, "Sure. But I can't actually remember the words in English. I never had to sing the song; only play it. D'you, Rachel, happen to know the words? Or Stella?"

Stella shook her head, denying any semblance of familiarity with this particular song. Rachel, on the other hand, was lost in a brief moment of contemplation.

"'Dein ist mein Herz'," she repeated to herself. It sounded familiar and it wasn't for another few seconds that she remembered where she had seen that phrase before. "'Dein ist mein Herz, und soll es ewig bleiben!'"

The other four _Titans_ looked at her in confusion, waiting for her explication, which Rachel soon gave.

"Ah," she said, as if realizing that she had spoken aloud. "I apologize. I taught myself to speak German from a series of books that I sourced from various bookshops around the city. None of them had any sort of cohesion with the other, and yet I was able to become fluent in the language. One of those books contained several poems for students of the language and I can recall it quite easily now. I am fairly certain it is the same poem that Schubert must have set to music, for I remember hearing it referred to as such somewhere; perhaps, in a book I read."

She took a deep breath and began a recitation that sounded as if it belonged more in a school-room than a Pacific Heights guest parlor.

" _Ich schnitt' es gern in alle Rinden ein. Ich grüb' es gern in jeden Kieselstein. Ich möcht' es sä'n auf jedes frische Beet mit Kressensamen, der es schnell verrät, auf jeden weissen Zettel möchte ich's schreiben_..." She paused. "And then the line that I remembered earlier, translating roughly to 'Thine is my heart, and it shall remain as such forever.'"

Garfield let out a low whistle.

"Say, Rachel," he said, "d'you think you could remember the rest of the words and maybe even translate them? I could play the melody a couple o' times like how you did with Stella earlier and then you could sing them."

Rachel quickly shook her head.

"Oh, no, I couldn't," she said. "I sound quite awful when I sing. Perhaps I can write the poem down and Stella could sing."

Garfield grumbled something about wanting to hear Rachel sing, but he soon contented himself to let Rachel source a spare sheet of paper and a lead pencil so that she could pass the lyrics on to Stella.

Thus, the music-making in the Grayson house continued, with Schubert's fast-paced, almost impatient chords. After this last _lied_ , which an astute reader might recognize as Franz Schubert's "Ungeduld," the name by which it is commonly known today, Victor joined Garfield as the two of them played a few more parlor songs. Eventually, however, Richard grew tired with all this frivolous entertainment - his cup of tea and slice of ginger cake long-since consumed - and he called everyone's attention to the fact that he had brought them here today for a specific purpose.

"I know that this day has been spent quite pleasantly," he said. If he had had a champagne glass and, perhaps, a fork, he would've tapped the silverware against the glass in a dramatic fit of showmanship, "however, I do desire to discuss the goings-on at that gambling den that the four of you visited not four days ago. Perhaps you might enlighten me as to what occurred that night, as that is the original reason as to why I've called you here today."

Properly chastened, the other four _Titans_ finally abandoned the piano to take their seats closer to Richard. Stella joined Richard in her former place on the loveseat and she took his hand in hers.

By a unanimous vote, taken almost entirely from mere glances towards one another, it was decided that it should be Stella who should recount to Richard the other four's adventures in the crooked house, so to speak. Rachel had grown weary of talking that day and had no desire to speak with Richard after the tone he had taken with her earlier. Garfield would have embellished the story to the point that the original happenings would have been irrevocably lost. Victor had actually raised a hand, about to ask permission to be the one to speak, although he decided the better of it when he realized that Richard seemed to only have eyes for Stella in that moment. There would only be a very slight chance, in that moment, that Richard would listen to what he had to say. So, Victor kept silent and allowed Stella to take the stage.

Stella's recounting of the Thursday night prior was incredibly detailed. She included little Mary Fischer's cat, the embroidered details on Jenny Jenkin's filmy gown, and the exact amount that she had won and then lost at the poker table. By the end of her long tale, her mouth was quite dry and Richard's head was spinning.

"You say that their operation seems to have one sole man at its helm?" Richard asked, leaning forward and resting his chin on his hands in contemplation like any literary detective worth his salt. "So, Ms. Jenkins and the Messrs. O'Callaghan and Flynn are not in charge?"

Stella nodded, saying, "Yes. And, it seems as if this man goes by the name of 'Slade.' Rachel has informed me that 'Slade' is a surname, however uncommon, and that she remembers hearing of one man by that name in association with her father."

Richard looked to Rachel for confirmation, which the other woman gave.

"I'm afraid that I cannot remember anything more about this particular Mr. Slade," Rachel said, "or else you would be the first to know."

Richard remained silent for a tense minute, deep in thought, before he finally sat back with a sigh.

"We know nothing else about this man?" he asked.

"How're we supposed to?" This indignant cry came from Victor. "We found out his name, didn't we? Ain't that enough for you for now? It's more than you've done!"

"Might I remind you, Mr. Stone," Richard said, "that I, as a member of this city's police department, do not want to involve myself in such trifling levels of this investigation. If I were to do so, I might compromise my career, my livelihood. I came close to doing so in the past, when I was a foolish young patrolman. I no longer wish to make mistakes like those. However, I had hoped that you four had found more than a name. Even if this man's surname is relatively uncommon, it will be very difficult for me to find any more information on him, especially if he has never been arrested or if he has never appeared on any sort of legal documents other than on his own birth certificate!"

After this exclamation, Richard sank further back in his seat, deflated. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, as if trying to alleviate some sort of phantom pain. At length, he spoke.

"Thank you for what you have found, but I doubt it will be enough," he said. "However, I will continue my investigation to the best of my abilities and I will alert you to any new developments, rest assured."

The others, especially Victor, looked at Richard with varying degrees of healthy skepticism, although they ultimately digressed. There wasn't much that they could do at this point and nobody wanted to set off Richard, who seemed to be in a particularly foul mood this Sunday.

As it turned out, the tea had long since grown cold and there were no more songs to be played on the piano. None of the others wanted to risk being yelled at once more by Richard. Rachel hadn't brought a book with her and Garfield and Victor shifted uncomfortably, feeling as if they had overstayed their welcomes. It was a very sour ending for what had been such a pleasant day of leisure. Thus, it wasn't long after this that everyone began saying their goodbyes. Victor was the first to leave, claiming that he needed to visit a few friends that afternoon before a Sunday dinner hosted by the family he lived with. Garfield left not long after, accompanied by Rachel, although the two ended up taking two separate routes home that day, tired by the presence of other people and unwilling to make further trivial conversation. Stella, of course, was the last to leave. Richard had originally asked her to stay for dinner, but she no longer felt comfortable with it being just the two of them. The cheerful tone of their earlier time spent in the library, when they were alone and wrapped up in their own little world had gone.

So, Stella donned her cloak and hat, leaving not long after the others.

"Goodbye, Richard," she said, kissing her fiancé on the cheek.

"I thought that you would stay for dinner tonight," Richard asked, as he led Stella to the front door.

Stella shook her head. She had found it very hard to explain to Richard that seeing the strange glint appear in his eye at the mention of this Slade character, as if this mysterious man was some sort of puzzle to be solved, had frightened her more than she cared to admit. It was Slade that rested at the forefront of Richard's mind now, not Stella, and Stella did not want to be ignored in such a way. She had never considered herself so self-centered, but she knew that what was best for Richard was that he be given some time alone with his thoughts. It was not in her place, at the moment, to take precedence. Being his fiancée only gave her so many privileges, after all.

"There is always tomorrow night, Richard," she said, eschewing any sort of terms of endearment when she said his name. It was difficult to keep the sorrow and disappointment out of her voice as she did so. "Or, perhaps, next Sunday. Now, however, I think it is best if I leave you to your thoughts."

Richard suddenly sobered up, as if realizing how harsh he had been to the others, to Stella.

"Very well," he said, his voice tight and controlled. Perhaps the thought of apologizing flitted across his mind, but he ultimately remained silent on the matter. "I hope that I shall see you sometime before next Sunday, Stella, if your schedule should allow."

Stella carefully nodded, before stepping out through the front door and back onto the street.

Richard watched her as she made her way back to the Westmoreland Hotel, although it was a bit of a walk. He felt a twinge of pain within his chest as he thought over how the afternoon had played out. Still, though, anything akin to regret was quickly smothered as he turned the name "Slade" over in his mind. He repeated it aloud a few times, as if savoring it. He had not mentioned this to the others, but having a name was incredibly substantial. A name led to a background. A name led to a person. Some unknown criminal was something fleeting, something useless. There were thousands of criminals in San Francisco alone. A name, on the other hand, given to some unknown criminal, was infinitely more tangible. A name, he could work with.

"Slade," Richard repeated to himself. It would be many more years before he could ever forget the five letters of that surname. "Slade."

 **oOo**

That one September Sunday would be the last time that the _Titans_ were to meet for the rest of the year. Sure, Stella spent quite a bit of her time with Richard. Such a thing is to be expected from an engaged couple, after all. However, Richard did not deem it important enough to extend an invitation to any of the other three for a similar gathering. It wasn't as if anyone had found anything worth noting regarding this "Slade." Besides, Richard found himself too engulfed with his own personal research regarding the enigmatic criminal. He spent hours researching, poring over documents in Old City Hall whenever his superiors weren't paying attention. he scoured criminal records, birth certificates, newspapers, all in the name of this obsession of his. Indeed, it wasn't until the next January that he allowed himself a little bit of a reprieve in his work, mostly at the suggestion of Stella, who had finally grown tired of his neglect towards her and the other _Titans_.

It was one evening after a night at the opera, when Richard was walking Stella back to her residence at the Westmoreland Hotel, when Stella had hesitantly suggested that Richard meet with the other three.

"You haven't seen Mr. Stone or Rachel or Mr. Logan in several months," she had said, drawing her fur-lined opera cape tighter around her body, for the January air was quite frigid and her gown had bared her shoulders in the name of the newest _mode_. "You know that I have lunched with them at least once or twice since we last gathered at your home, Richard, but I think it's time that you meet with them once more. Perhaps you have found something related to your research. Or, perhaps a meeting with our friends might do you some good."

"No!" Richard had abruptly shouted, drawing some attention from the passers-by on the street. Such theatrics were appropriate for those inside the opera-house, not outside. He lowered his voice, before repeating, "No."

He offered no further explanation to Stella, instead resolutely gripping her arm as he continued to escort her home. Stella chose not to comment on how tight his grip truly was, her brow instead expressing her concern for Richard that overwhelmed any sort of personal discomfort she might have felt.

Still, despite what he had told Stella that night at the opera, not long after, Richard sent out a telegram - such a method of communication seems to be the one that he preferred - to the others, calling them for another gathering. This one, he stressed, had nothing to do with the subjects of his own personal research and, instead, would merely be a gathering of friends.

Privately, Stella wondered, for she had been present as Richard composed and sent the telegrams in the nearest office, if the gathering would stay just that.

 **oOo**

As it would turn out, it would seem as if Richard was trying his absolute hardest to play the gracious host when the other four finally reunited that following January of 1893. A few new parlor songs were played, all by Garfield, and Rachel had remembered to bring a book with her (the first volume of Rawlinson's _Seven Great Monarchies_ ). Victor, on the other hand, was trying to teach Stella to play chess as Richard watched in mild amusement. As per usual, Mrs. O'Doyle supplied the five of them with plenty of tea and dainties from her cart.

"Will you not play, Richard?" Stella asked, nudging her fiancé with her elbow, as if that would encourage him to join in. It didn't work, for Richard shook his head vehemently, although he tried to offer Stella a small encouraging smile.

"It's quite all right," he said. "I am perfectly fine with watching."

Stella _tsk_ -ed noncommittally before returning to the chessboard, deep in concentration as she tried her hardest to beat Victor. She lost, for the third time that day.

"I give up!" she said with a laugh, throwing her hands up in the air. "I never understood this game of yours, Victor. It is incredibly difficult."

She turned towards Richard. "Are you sure you will not even try, just once?"

Richard responded by hushing her abruptly.

"Stella, please," he said, curtly, "I'm trying to think."

"Oh, all right," Stella said, her voice hesitant and her hurt obvious.

Richard fell further into his own thoughts. Seeing the other four in one place set the cogs in his mind turning. He had made very little progress with his investigation but, perhaps, the other four could reprise their roles like they did with the whole May-Eileen debacle. There was only so much that they could do as a group, but individually...

 _Yes, individually_ , Richard thought, _they could accomplish so much more._

Looking around him, Richard took stock of the other four, remembering what they had done nearly three years before.

Rachel - Ms. Roth - was the first that Richard observed. She had been quite the asset to him, able to confidently converse with all those brothel-owners and the girls they employed. She could visit those houses of ill-repute once more, perhaps to see if any of the madams or girls had ever heard of a Mr. Slade. Yes, Rachel would prove to be invaluable to his investigation. After all, when Stella had been recounting that night at the gambling den, she had mentioned that Ms. Roth had been the one to notice the roles of Michael O'Callaghan and Barnard Flynn and that it had been Ms. Roth who had held the lengthiest conversation with Ms. Jenkins. Yes, Richard supposed, Ms. Roth would once again be quite the asset to him.

Next was Stella. Of course, Richard thought, his fiancé would provide him with much more than investigative skills. She had been the one to comfort him over the past few months as he returned from late nights at the office, haggard from lack of sleep and with quite the awful temper. Stella might not have been able to traverse through the lower rungs of society like Ms. Roth, although she worked as a typist in an office that was prone to gossip. From the girls who sat around her, Stella had been privy to not just workplace gossip but also to some secrets from other bigwigs and higher-ups around the city. She ignored most of it, of course, since she was a good worker and a respectable woman, although, perhaps, she might overhear something about Slade.

Then, there was Garfield. Richard was loath to put too much hope on Garfield's espionage, for, from previous experiences with the young man, Garfield lacked the subtlety that any sort of good investigative work might have required. Still, Richard reasoned with himself, Garfield frequented basement saloons, gambling dens, dance-halls, and two-bit bordellos. Those were the types of establishments that seemed the most likely to be associated with a man like Slade and it had been Garfield who had realized that there was something wrong with that one gambling den in the first place. Thus, Richard reasoned with himself, Garfield Logan, despite his faults, was an invaluable member of Richard's little group.

That left Victor Stone. Every time Richard tried to think of what Victor had done to help out with the May-Eileen affair or related to the gambling den or any of their previous criminal encounters, he came up short. It would seem as if, to Richard, Victor Stone was always just an extension of Garfield Logan; the younger man's conscience, it could be said. Still, Richard failed to see how Victor was important to his investigation.

It was almost unconsciously, then, that Richard said, "What does Victor have to offer?"

This put a halt to Stella and Victor's chess-playing, as the two of them overheard Richard's musings.

"Excuse me?" Victor said, any previous enjoyment he had felt while besting Stella at chess now gone.

Richard, had he been a wiser man, would have immediately apologized and offered up some excuse for such a harsh statement. Well, to be frank, a wiser man would not have been debating the merits of his friends' skills with himself and, therefore, would not have uttered such a foolish thing out loud in the first place.

"I was just wondering what part you've played in this whole affair," Richard said, refusing to back down. "May-Eileen, Slade, all of it."

Victor stood, staring stonily at Richard. It was then that Rachel finally looked up from his book. Garfield's tuneless piano-playing had stopped some thirty seconds ago.

"What part _I've_ played?" Victor asked. "As if I'm only an actor in these grand schemes of yours?"

 _Instead of an individual, a fellow man,_ was what remained unspoken.

Richard nodded, seeing no reason as to why he should explain any further. However, he didn't want to give Victor the last say, so he added, "With May-Eileen, when we first met, you were a mere lackey in Mr. Gordon's shipping company. It was Garfield who had access to the man's ledgers. And, regarding later cases of ours, you have similarly attached yourself to your friend. Did you do anything of merit at the gambling den? I cannot recall Stella mentioning you doing anything other than gambling away your day's earnings. It isn't as if you regaled us with any particular observations of that night, unlike Ms. Roth. So, I ask you, Victor, what part do you play in my investigations? Especially if you are welcome in so few restaurants and establishments. How can you hope to help us as we comb through the city if you can't even step foot in half of it?"

Victor's voice was cold when next he spoke, as he gathered his coat and hat from the rack by the door of the parlor.

"Your investigations?" This question was punctuated by Victor angrily throwing on and buttoning up his coat. "You might wanna rethink that, Sergeant Grayson. Crime affects us all in San Francisco. You might be the one with access to all those fancy documents over at the station, but it's men like me who're on the streets."

As Victor made a move to open the front door, he shouted back to Richard, "And here I was, thinking we were friends. Don't worry, Sergeant, you made your feelings quite clear to me with that two-cent notepad you gave me for my birthday."

The door slammed shut and a stifling silence fell throughout the house. Victor Stone had left.

Garfield was the first to react, standing up and racing after Victor without even a second thought.

Rachel soon followed, although not without a harsh look sent towards Richard.

"A word to the wise, Sergeant Grayson," she said, "as Cicero once said, and I translate here for Stella's benefit as well as yours, 'It is of the character of any man to make a mistake, but of none save the fool to persist in one.'"

All too soon, Richard was left alone with Stella, who gazed at him with such intense disappointment that, finally, Richard felt some semblance of regret for his actions. It was too little, too late, however. And it would seem as if Richard had somehow ended this gathering much like he had ended the previous one the year before.

"Oh, Richard," Stella said, at length, "I wish you had been kinder to your friends. I wish you had supported them as much as I have supported you."

"Stella, I-" Richard began to say, although Stella had already retreated to one of the armchairs in the parlor with a bit of embroidery in one hand. It would seem as if she was intent on ignoring Richard, for she began humming some indeterminate tune, effectively drowning out anything that he might have said to her afterwards.

Richard faltered, for now he felt truly alone.


End file.
